


when you press me to your heart

by aerospaces



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies), Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies) RPF, Real Person Fiction
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe, Gay Sex, Interns & Internships, M/M, New York City
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-04
Updated: 2017-06-04
Packaged: 2018-11-09 03:27:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 29,512
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11095905
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aerospaces/pseuds/aerospaces
Summary: Doctors/Hospital AU | Whether this leads to something great or will turn out to be one of the worst decisions of Ezra's life remains to be seen, but for now he plans to see it all the way through.





	1. un

**Author's Note:**

  * For [](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts).



> Mostly this was inspired by a [ clip from The Killing of A Sacred Dear](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gHScRWhv4WI>), and after a viewing of _The Lobster_ which...unsettled me, emotionally. This is not harrowing as those two, however, though the typos are atrocious and all over the place lol. :D
> 
> The Barry mentioned in this fic is Barry Keoghan, Colin's co-star in KOASD. He is [adorable](https://youtu.be/dNxWH2SxTTo?t=197). Also makes mentions of Ezra's band [Sons of An Illustrious Father](https://www.sonsofanillustriousfather.com/), and his bandmates. This is as RPF as RPF can get, my friends.
> 
> Title is from _La Vie En Rose_. Originally I wanted the use the French translation but thought that would be a bit... much. I can't believe I spent two weekends writing this. I really can't.

 

 

 

 

 

 

*

Ezra’s been working thirty hours straight, carrying out nurses’ orders and getting paged by senior residents at every opportunity. Being constantly on his feet has started to wear on him. He’d known, empirically, that medical interns were the bottom of the barrel, but he can’t have been more wholly unprepared for the work cut out for him. It takes him another couple of hours on the shift to break. 

At this point, he’s ready to go home and hand off the rest of his patients to whomever is available, _fuck passing this rotation_. In the end, his conscience gets the better of him and he settles for a nap in the break room. 

It’s two in the morning, and to his surprise, the break room is empty: the couches are free, the television has been left on, and there’s a box of fresh doughnuts on the coffee table, courtesy, probably, of one of the senior residents. Ezra grabs a random doughnut from the box and finds himself a spot on the couch, pillowing his head on the armrest as he gets himself ready for a nap. 

As soon as his eyes close, exhaustion washes over him like a wave and he falls asleep in one fell swoop — doughnut still wedged halfway into his mouth, left leg propped on the floor.

When he opens his eyes again, the room is eerily silent. Ezra sits up gingerly as the world slowly comes into focus. His eyes take awhile to adjust to the low light of the room. The tv has been turned off, which explains the absence of white noise, and there’s someone sitting in the couch opposite his. 

Ezra blinks once, twice, then digs the heel of one hand into his eyes. His mouth tastes like chocolate. When he looks down, he finds that the doughnut has left a sticky brown imprint on his scrubs. 

Dr Farrell — head of surgery — is sat in one of the reading coaches flanking the coffee table. Even in this piss poor lighting, he cuts such a handsome profile. The beard seems more like an affectation than anything though it suits him just wonderfully, making him look older beyond his years, at forty-two. 

Ezra is _technically_ still on break and it’s only been fifteen minutes since he’s fallen asleep but he’s missed a call already. _Shit_. He blushes, more out of shame than anything, even though Dr Farrell isn’t even looking at him, absorbed in a reading a backdated copy of the NY Times and twirling a clicker a pen in his right hand. 

A current of _something_ runs through Ezra, slow to crest, but he manages to shake himself out of it.

Dr Farrell is portly, but then again most doctors tended to be at his age, his shoulders filling up his white coat, his middle nearing thickness, though this, along with his immaculately parted hair, neat as a pin and flecked with silver here and there, seemed to make him all the more attractive.

“Mr Miller,” Dr Farrell intones, not taking his eyes off the paper in his lap. His eyes crinkle in the corners, the seam of his mouth curving into the barest hint of a smile.

“Yes,” says Ezra, an automatic reaction when someone of authority says his name.

This time, Dr Farrell shoots him a commiserating smile. Ezra hangs in head in embarrassment, before picking up the doughnut from the floor with a paper napkin.

There’s something about the doctor’s _presence_ that makes his spine sing with pleasure. He’d given a talk about patient care during the welcoming orientation, and Ezra had hoped, ever since, to bump into him during his rotation. 

In the last two months, they’ve only crossed paths twice, once in the cafeteria where the doctor had paid for his lunch, the second time when Ezra had been assigned to a patient of his, and frozen like a deer in headlights when the doctor had asked him to place an IV. 

Both times had ended horribly and Ezra has trouble meeting the doctor’s gaze ever since — not because of his raging schoolboy crush, though that’s often part of the reason why, but because every show of incompetence has knocked him down a peg. 

Being first in class has meant nothing; he’s been a mess ever since the start of his rotation, his work unimpressive bordering on pathetic.

Ezra’s pager goes off, knocking him back to reality. He scans the page briefly before turning his attention back to Dr. Farrell, thankful for the interruption.

“I have to — go see patients now,” he says blandly.

The doctor nods, smiling genially, waving his hand in the direction of the door. “Of course, of course. Mustn’t keep patients waiting, after all.”

Ezra is busily contemplating throwing himself in the path of a moving car when his pager goes off again. This time, he breaks into a run.

*

The problem with Dr Farrell is that he’s devastatingly handsome but doesn’t seem to realise it. It makes working with him a lot harder than it needs to be though it’s not often Ezra gets to say that because he almost never gets any of Dr Farrell’s patients. 

Ezra’s seen his charm at work — the nurses love him and never give him a hard time, and several other interns ask about him constantly because he’s the only senior resident who even remotely gives a shit about them: never riding them too hard, or embarrassing them in front of patients. 

Ezra’s heard horror stories, and he’s been subject to the whims of less forgiving doctors himself. It’s made him want to quit, time and time again, but then he remembers why he’s here, and the fact he still has a ton of unpaid student loans and it buoys him back to reality. 

He’s elbow deep in paperwork, working in the cafeteria because the break room is full, when he overhears the senior residents razzing Dr Farrell about his weight. It’s been an in-joke among the older staff — the doctor had packed on the pounds when his wife left him three years ago. He’s been getting heavier since, though Ezra can’t imagine him looking leaner, or without the beard — also, apparently, a result of his divorce. 

The roundness lent his face a friendliness that made people warm up to him, Ezra included. 

Ezra sneaks a peak at the other table, and as if on cue, Dr Farrell’s gaze meets his. He nods stiffly in acknowledgement, to which Dr Farrell simply smiles. 

Ezra returns the gesture, a little awkwardly, before forcing his gaze back to his paper, sliding his headphones back on and fighting off his exhaustion with his sixth cup of coffee.

*

Everyone has gone home for the night. Ezra is getting ready to leave when he spies Dr Farrell exiting the lobby doors, headed, no doubt, in the direction of the parking lot. It’s one in the morning, and he’s got a duffel bag in one hand, his car keys clutched in a tight knuckled grip in the other. 

Against his better judgement, Ezra follows him out, keeping himself far enough that he won’t seem suspicious. He keeps his pace leisurely, his hands jammed in the pockets of his scrubs. From his vantage point,Ezra can see almost everything: the rows of street lamps throwing weak yellow circles on the pavement, the residents’ cars sitting side by side, nearly indistinguishable from each other.

Dr Farrell stops in front of a black Bugatti, which seems at odds, almost, with the rest of his appearance — too flashy, too bold, unlike him at all, not a car he’s likely to drive, but then again he gets paid a handsome amount as head of surgery, and what does Ezra know. He’s not privy to the lives of senior residents. 

Dr Farrell tosses his duffel into the passenger side, then shuts the door with the heel of his hand. When he lights a cigarette, the filter glows a bright orange before petering out.

Afterwards, all Ezra can see is the vague outline of his profile, as he stands there, all by himself.

*

Ezra has the next day off. He takes advantages of this, making a beeline for the exit, chattering inanely about his plans with a fellow intern before they part ways at the intersection. 

Ezra stops by the grocery to pick up supplies — there’s a chain store near the hospital, just a block away from the bus stop. His fridge needs restocking, as he’s pretty sure everything in it has passed the expiry date. 

He hasn’t been taking care of himself lately — he’s lost 5 pounds since his rotation began, because he skips meals whenever he can, foregoing food in exchange for sleep. He’s walking down the wine aisle when he sees a familiar face that makes him do a double take. It’s the doctor, and he’s in sweatpants and an old college shirt with the collar loose around his neck. 

He seems… unassuming almost, in normal clothes and running shoes, but Ezra is quickly interrupted from ogling him when the doctor turns and glances at him over his shoulder, recognition in his eyes. 

“Mr Miller.”

“Ezra,” Ezra corrects him. “Just Ezra.”

There’s that smile again, the one that Ezra can’t read, the one reserved for children and patients, before the doctor nods. That would have been the end of their conversation, were it not for the fact they’re headed in the same direction and practically crowding the aisle, walking side by side. 

Ezra attempts small talk at best he can. “It’s a little bit…novel, to see you here, shopping like a mere mortal,” he begins uncertainly. It’s his main social tactic — ruining amiable conversation by warping it into something sarcastic. He wants to die.

“Does it bother you?” Dr. Farrell asks, finally, after a long pause. “To find out that I’m human after all?”

“ _What_?” says Ezra. His confusion must show on his face, because the doctor laughs and pats him on the shoulder good-naturedly. “I was joking. That was a joke. No need to be so nervous around me, Mr Miller. We’re both off the clock and I’m not here to grade you.” He jerks his chin at the contents in Ezra’s shopping cart: bags of cheddar popcorn and a stack of microwavable dinners, plus an enormous bottle of Jack Daniels. 

Ezra reddens, feeling self-conscious all of a sudden. 

This is not how he wants to present himself: a total wreck of a person subsisting on a substandard diet. He hasn’t even combed his hair since his shift started, or changed out of his scrubs. He’s aware he looks exhausted, because two hours of sleep on a thirty-six hour shift has a tendency to kill you, very slowly, from the inside. 

The only reason he’s upright at all is sheer force of will — he wants to relish a rare day off — that, and because he’s within the vicinity of his favourite doctor, handsome even with a sagging middle, hair curling like a comma over his left eyebrow. 

“That doesn’t look too healthy,” Dr Farrell says, with a bemused look.

“Well, neither does that,” Ezra points out, gesturing to the doctor’s cart, laden with a variety of alcoholic beverages. Its only saving grace is the loaf of bread sticking out of a damp paper bag, and a measly bag of baby spinach.

Dr Farrell scratches his beard, looking properly abashed as he chuckles and shakes his head at himself. “I’m a lifelong alcoholic, I’m afraid. It’s a hard habit to break.” Ezra doesn’t know whether to take that at face value so he says nothing instead. 

“Is today your day off?” the doctor asks. The question takes Ezra off guard but he nods as he pokes through the stacks of _Cosmopolitan_ magazines and gum situated by the counter as they wait for their turn. It’s the most he’s spoken to the doctor at all, and he’s floored by how effortless it almost seems, at least on a surface-level. 

The doctor doesn’t know how hard Ezra’s heart is beating, or how sweaty his palms are, how desperately he’s hanging onto every word, but at least Ezra is giving off an air of nonchalance he doesn’t feel. 

“Any plans at all?” the doctor hedges.

Ezra shrugs, a non-answer, because the truth is much worse: watch embarrassing tv like ABC Family while gorging himself on popcorn that smells like feet. “You?”

Dr Farrell raises his eyebrows emphatically, glancing down at his shopping cart.

“Well,” Ezra says, after a moment. “If you ever need a drinking buddy, Doctor…”

He hears a soft puff of laughter behind him but before Ezra can turn around and check, it’s his turn at the till.

*

Ezra’s mother would berate him, but the fact of the matter is it’s hard to eat real food when healthy options are not entirely at his disposable. 

When he confesses that he hasn’t been eating all that well lately, she plies him with homecooked food the weekend she pays him a visit, tidies his apartment so he can see his sink once again and wear something that hasn’t been salvaged from under the bed and doused with half a bottle of cologne. 

She leaves his fridge stocked to the brim with tupperware — roast turkey, mac and cheese, chicken pot pie, all his favourites from home, and for a week and half he eats standing by the microwave, filling the break room with the smells of his mother’s cooking. 

On one such occasion, he runs into Dr Farrell by chance, sitting in his favourite seat by the potted plant and doing the Sunday NY Times crossword, forehead creased into three deep lines. He shouldn’t even be here because he has his own office, overlooking the harbour, but he must like the smell of food because Ezra keeps bumping into him now every so often. 

Dr Farrell lifts his head when Ezra trots over to the empty sofa next to him. The break room is blessedly free of people at this hour, accounting for Ezra’s sudden courage. There’s no one around to interrupt them, no one to make Ezra feel self-conscious except himself. 

“That smells wonderful,” Dr Farrell says, folding his paper in two before setting it aside. “You cook?”

“My mom,” explains Ezra, taking the lid off and batting his hand through the steam rising off the surface. 

Today’s lunch is tuna casserole, and Ezra’s getting ready to eat when he catches sight of Dr Farrell sniffing the air. “She’s great,” Ezra continues. “She can make anything. Would you — would you like some, doctor?”

The offer seems to make Dr Farrell pause, and Ezra is halfway into wishing the ground would swallow him whole when the doctor says, “Yes. Yes, please.”

Ezra offers him the first bite — it only seems fair because he’s chief of surgery — which the doctor gladly takes with a generous swipe of the fork. Ezra watches him chew methodically and then groan in pleasure before nodding. “That,” he says, sounding breathless, “That’s really good food.”

Ezra blushes and makes a noise of agreement. “Like I said, doctor, my mom can make anything. Can’t cook to save my life, though. But I make a mean eggs benedict.”

“Do you now?” the doctor says, sounding intrigued. He mops the rest of his beard with a paper napkin before cutting a large chunk of tuna and spearing it with the tines of the fork. 

He holds it aloft between them, offering the bite for Ezra to take. Ezra simply stares back at him dumbly,but before he can make a big deal out of it, his pager goes off at his belt. He’s on his feet again afterwards, already headed for the door and hating his life with every fiber of his being. 

Ezra slaps a palm over the wall right before he makes the hallway: “You can have the rest. If you want, I mean. _Doctor._ ” It’s said as an afterthought and then Ezra ducks out for real and beats a hasty exit, ignoring the prickle in his neck, and the flush behind his ears. 

As a result, he misses the quizzical look the doctor sends him. 

Later, on his next break, Ezra finds the tupperware washed by the break room sink, a handwritten thank you note taped on the lid in the doctor’s barely legible scrawl. 

Ezra pockets the blue post-it, and doesn’t think about the note all day, at all.

*

Dr Farrell likes to keep to himself. Sometimes, his shirt gets untucked at the back, which he fails to notice until someone, usually an intern, points it out. He eats the same thing, day in and day out, at least for lunch: turkey and swiss on rye, bought from the deli across the street, a banana and half a cup of red jello. 

These days, because he’s watching his weight, he only eats half of everything, cutting his sandwich in a precise line before binning the rest. Ezra catches him cheating from time to time — thumbing the vending machine for a chocolate bar or a bag of Doritos, or getting a milkshake in between rounds. 

For the most part, it seems the doctor prefers his own company, aloof to the point of unfriendliness to anyone but his patients. Ezra rarely sees him with the other residents, though this could largely be due to office politics: the residents hate him because he’s so popular, and doesn’t seem to realise it. The interns adore him to the point of worship. 

Ezra bumps into him during one of his smoke breaks, stuffing a flask of whiskey into his coat pocket the second Ezra gets within hearing range. 

The doctor lifts an eyebrow at him, in question, before stubbing his cigarette under the heel of one shoe. 

“Should you be drinking on the job?” Ezra says — more out of alarm than anything else. It’s not exactly the greatest way to announce his presence, but it seems to get the doctor’s attention, quirking up his mouth in an unreadable way.

“No,” Dr Farrell agrees. “Probably not. I could get sacked. Can you keep a secret?”

“What’s that?” Ezra asks. 

“I drink before a surgery. Just a thumb — it takes the edge off, you see. Helps calm pre-surgery nerves.”

“And it doesn’t interfere at all with the—”

“Oh, no, no, god, no. I wouldn’t let it.”

“Right,” Ezra says. He splutters when Dr Farrell offers him the flask, not sure whether it’d be polite to accept or not but deciding his internship is not worth throwing away at this point. 

“I’m good, but thanks.”

The doctor chuckles before taking a sip. “You’re young,” he says, capping the lid. “You wouldn’t understand.”

Ezra shrugs rather than answer. He pats his pockets for his lighter until he remembers he left it in his jacket pocket in the break room. 

When the doctor offers him a light, he hesitates only a second, before stepping forward into his personal space and leaning into his cupped palms. He has to tilt his chin down quite a bit and tuck his hair away from his face. The doctor flicks his gaze up to meet Ezra’s, eyes crinkling in the corners. The skin around them is rubbed a raw pink, which makes Ezra realise the depth of his exhaustion, how much it’s a mirror of his own. 

Ezra steps away once his cigarette is lit, fighting off the inexplicable rush brought about by the doctor’s proximity. “Thanks,” he says.

Dr Farrell nods, slipping his lighter into his breast pocket. He hooks his thumbs into his belt loops, tugging the waistline of his pants even lower still as he rests his weight on his heels.

Ezra blows smoke from the corner of his mouth and watches it condense in the cold autumnal air.

“I never thanked you for the casserole,” the Doctor says, apropos of nothing.

Ezra feels his stomach jitter. “Did you — did you like it?”

The doctor nods. “Oh, yes. Very much.”

“Well,” Ezra says. He wears a rut in the ground with the point of his shoe. “ _Good_. I worked every hard microwaving it.”

“I never took you up on that offer,” Dr Farrell says, laughing.

“What?”

“Of keeping me company while I drink.” The way he says it is breezy and dismissive all at once, but he has a soft smile on his face that makes Ezra flush when he turns to look at him over his shoulder. 

“Oh,” Ezra blurts, before repeating himself, a little more dumbly. “ _Oh_. Yeah.”

“Do you have tonight off?”

Ezra takes a long pull of his cigarette though it does little to soothe the raw ache in his chest. It’s the weather, he thinks blandly. Nothing more. Or perhaps it could be the beginning of a cold. “I’m not off until Wednesday,” he sighs.

“Another time, then.”

“Sure,” Ezra says, a little too quickly before he can stop himself. “Hope springs eternal.”

This time, it’s the doctor’s turn to be summoned by a page. Dr Farrell unclips his beeper from his belt, frowning as his eyes scan the code. “Well, that’s me. I’ll see you around Mr. Miller. Nice chat.”

“Ezra,” Ezra calls after him.

Dr Farrell stops in his tracks to do a slow half-turn, a frozen half-smile on his face when he glances over his shoulder. 

It morphs into something softer, more pleased as he squares his shoulders. “Ezra,” he corrects himself, with a tiny nod. “I’ll see you around.”

*

Ezra doesn’t fraternize with the other interns, though from time to time when he feels like being privy to office gossip, he hangs around a few of them to make idle chit-chat: dull, inane, nothing too incriminating — he doesn’t like mixing his professional life with his personal one, preferring to keep the two separate, omitting telling details in his anecdotes, and only sharing the barest minimum of information to keep the appearance of friendliness. 

He isn’t stupid — he knows how desperate these guys are to get ahead. He doesn’t want to say something he’ll end up regretting later, something the others can use against him like a weapon to throw him under the bus.

When a surgical intern, John, invites him for drinks with the rest of his pals in surgery, Ezra accepts the offer noncommittally. He isn’t planning on showing up, until it turns out to be one of the longest shifts in his life and he ends up needing a stiff drink after getting yelled at by his attending.

There’s a bar that’s a fifteen minute walk away from the hospital, ten if you cut through the farmer’s market, dodging pedestrians and wayward bicyclists. It’s almost midnight when Ezra makes the walk, bundled up in a fleece jacket and keeping his hands warm under his armpits. 

The weather has started to turn recently, shedding the leaves of trees and darkening the sky prematurely. Ezra smokes on his way there, keeping to the side streets so he can walk under the glow of streetlamps. He’s halfway to his second cigarette when he arrives at the bar though he stands under the awning for another five minutes until he finishes his smoke.

He finds John and his friends quickly enough, huddled in one of the corner booths and already deep in conversation. 

It’s not as much of a social nightmare as he’s expecting because they welcome him to their table as if they haven’t just met him then and there. He’s always been the type to make friends easily though his main problem is keeping in touch and sustaining interest. 

Ezra confuses names and forgets faces, but otherwise can pretend to care about whatever mundane bullshit people are going through. 

It’s a talent; in reality Ezra has a low tolerance for people that don’t interest him. He doesn’t like to be bored.

The night wears on without much fanfare, various points of which are punctuated by the ladies taking turns at karaoke. Ezra waves them away when it’s his turn, and pretends to be textingsomeone when the conversation hits a lull: they chat about the residents, about their patients, about who’s sleeping with whom and who’s likely to quit before the year is over — and Ezra laughs and offers his own commentary without missing a beat. 

After his third beer, he staggers to the bathroom to piss. He washes his hands in the sink, then his face, tying his hair back so it doesn’t get in his eyes. He needs a haircut. 

When he steps out of the men’s room, he’s hit with a sudden wave of dizziness and remembers he’s miscounted his beers. Four maybe, and two shots of whiskey, neat. Maybe a tequila in there too. He’s about to head back to the table when a familiar face catches his eye — it’s a wonder Ezra even recognizes him at all, with several drinks in him, and under such shitty lighting, but he’ll know those shoulders anywhere, that profile, the neatly parted hair. He wends his way through tables and crowds, and before he even realises it, is standing right in front of the doctor and taking the empty seat next to him. He’s chosen a booth for himself though he seems to be alone, nursing a scotch on the rocks and barely touching the bowl of peanuts at his elbow.

“Hello,” the doctor says, blinking up at him.

“Hi,” says Ezra, a little breathless. The doctor is still in his peacoat, buttoned all the way down so Ezra can see the striped tie, the powder-blue dress shirt underneath. “Are you here alone, doctor?”

The doctor smiles ruefully. “As always.” He peers over Ezra’s shoulder. “Are you here with friends?”

“Yeah, sort of,” Ezra confesses. “But they’re not really my friends in the strictest sense of the word, they’re more like… colleagues? It’s a social obligation, kind of.” He blushes, not knowing why he’s being brutally honest. “Can I keep you company?”

“I’m not much company tonight, I’m afraid. I might just bore you to tears.”

“Oh, I can be quiet,” Ezra promises him. “We can just sit here in silence and… watch people.” 

The doctor looks at him before blinking again, and Ezra blushes, hating himself fiercely. God, he thinks, why did I say that? Stupid, stupid, stupid.

“I’m sorry,” he blabbers, burying his face in his hands. He rakes them through his hair and pulls. “I think I’m drunk. I’m normally not this annoying.”

The doctor laughs softly. “It’s okay,” he says. “You’re not annoying.”

“Really?”Ezra asks disbelievingly. “You’re probably only saying that to be nice.”

“If you really knew me, you wouldn’t say that. I’m not nice,” the doctor says. He takes a sip of his scotch, ice clinking against the glass. He sets it down on the enamel coaster and the ice makes another clink, the sound like tiny silver bells. “I’m an old alcoholic coot,” he says, giving Ezra a meaningful look. It should be mundane, the way he says it like that, self-deprecating with a hint of bitterness, but overlaid with that accent, and the way his eyes are soft under the light — it all makes Ezra’s chest do a strange, painful thing.

“I’m going to get us beers,” Ezra announces loudly, getting up from his seat. He doesn’t wait for a reply, just sways towards the bar without looking over his shoulder.

*

Ezra doesn’t get drunk often. Which is why when he comes to, in an unfamiliar bed in an unfamiliar room, the first thing he does is check if he still has all his clothing on. 

He doesn’t seem to be naked, much to his relief and disappointment, though someone had taken the time to peel off his shoes and place them neatly at the foot of the bed. His head feels like it’s been dipped in honey and dragged through the gravel, though, and he makes a mental note to himself to never mix shots with John.

When he’s a little less likely to bowl over from the headache, he opens his eyes again and takes stock of his surroundings: the beige and cream drapery, the minimalist interior. 

On the beside table next to the lamp are his phone and wristwatch, a glass of water and a sachet of aspirin. He takes two aspirin and tops off the water, before padding into the hall without his shoes on. 

The carpet sinks under his bare feet, like sand. He doesn’t know what time it is but it looks like it’s almost morning again, judging by the light softening the dew on the windows.

It’s only later that Ezra realises where he is, when he sees the doctor curled up on living room sofa, asleep. He’s hunched into himself, his knees slightly bent, his face scrunched up like he’s in the midst of a fitful sleep. He’s down to his undershirt, his tie crumpled in a heap on the coffee table next to a milky cup of lukewarm coffee.

He’s still wearing his glasses, so Ezra quietly crouches down in front of him and slides them very carefully from his face in case the movement jars him. Ezra sets the glasses down on the coffee table, watching the doctor sleep for a while, wanting, so very badly, to brush the hair out of his face. He looks younger when he’s sleeping, his lips slightly parted, his eyelashes framing his face. 

Ezra steels himself and keeps his distance, though eventually he caves and grabs the blanket from the bedroom to throw over Dr Farrell. He arranges it over his shoulders, an excuse to touch him without feeling like he’s overstepping his boundaries. His neck, the back of his head, his strong forearms.

The doctor doesn’t stir at all.

Ezra curls up in the adjacent sofa and falls asleep listening to the doctor’s snoring. When he wakes again it’s with a sudden start, and he looks around in a panicked daze before remembering where he is. 

The sofa is empty, devoid of the doctor. The blanket has been folded away, the necktie missing from the coffee table. 

Ezra can hear Dr Farrell puttering about in the kitchen where the smell of cooking food is the strongest. It smells like bacon and eggs, heavenly. Ezra’s mouth waters. He rubs his eyes and pops the crick in his neck. Sunlight is streaming through the French windows, throwing long columns of shadow across the marble floor. 

The doctor looks up as Ezra enters the kitchen, already setting the table. He looks freshly showered, his white t-shirt taut across the width of his shoulders. He’s wearing grey sweatpants, his glasses perched above his damp hair, rumpled out of its usual neat coif. 

“Perfect. I was just about to wake you,” he says. He breaks into a smile but it disappears right away, like he’s surprised at himself for having done that.

In comparison, Ezra is still dressed in yesterday’s clothes, sans his jacket and shoes, his shirt wrinkled and uncomfortable in places where sweat has plastered it on his skin. His hair, on the other hand, is an even bigger mess. Ezra reaches out to tug it away from his face but a few errant curls spring back and poke him in the eyes. He focuses instead on the feast laid out of him, blowing the fringe out of his face rather unsuccessfully. 

“This is a lot of food,” he comments, and grabs a piece of bacon from where rows are perched side by side on a paper napkin. There’s about four eggs to split between them, a teetering pile of buttered toast, jam, some sausage charred to a crisp and beans, lots of beans — not Ezra’s typical breakfast,which often consists of dry oatmeal or cereal, and he says just as much to the doctor who grins and snatches a forkful of hash for himself. 

“I’m afraid you’ll find I have quite the appetite.” He says this as he pats his belly, which shouldn’t be as endearing as it should be, but is. Ezra blushes and helps the doctor with the cutlery, acutely aware of their proximity when Dr Farrell leans forward to set the plates across the table, their sides almost touching. He has hairy forearms, making Ezra wonder where else he might be hairy too — a traitorous thought that makes him want to shrivel up and die in embarrassment. 

“Thanks, for letting me spend the night,” Ezra says as they both settle down to eat. 

“I would have called an Uber but I didn’t know where you lived. You were out like a light after your second beer. And I couldn’t find your friends,” the doctor says.

Ezra groans, gritting his teeth. He can picture all of it, even though he hadn’t been conscious through any of it. He must’ve given the doctor a hard time; he’s always been an annoying drunk. “Sorry,” he says, then tries to salvage the conversation by making a joke. “ _Colleagues_ , you mean? They aren’t my friends.” 

“Right, colleagues,” the doctor says, cottoning on quickly. He pours Ezra a cup of coffee, chuckling when Ezra traces his fingers across the bubble print on the ceramic, spelling _world’s greatest surgeon_ in alternating blue and red letters — a gag gift, it seems like, because none of the mugs on the shelf are as gaudy or kitsch. “Would you like milk with your coffee?” the doctor asks. 

Ezra nods in answer. He’s so handsome, with his sure hands and friendly face, his dark brown eyes that Ezra wonders how his wife even had the heart to leave him. 

Ezra hates mooning over people like this, being reduced to incoherence by a silly schoolboy crush, but he knows all he has to do is wait, and wait. 

Whatever this is will hit its peak, cresting before it subsides. He just has to be patient, and ride it out all the way through, and not let himself get swept up in the eddies. “Yes,” he says, as calmly as possible. “Yes, please.”

The doctor smiles, his teeth showing, and pours milk into Ezra’s cup. 

*

It isn’t as if Ezra is having an affair with the doctor. He’s not. For one, the doctor is divorced, and for another, nothing had happened in between breakfast and the doctor dropping him off at his apartment. 

Ezra would have invited him up for coffee except his living room was a sty, dirty laundry on every available surface and boxes of microwaveables heaping the sink. He’d have stayed longer too and asked to use the doctor’s shower were it not for the fact that he didn’t want to overstay his welcome. The doctor might have other commitments, people to see, and not appreciate having to babysit an intern who unwittingly got himself drunk on his watch. And so Ezra had to go.

Ezra tells himself it’s nothing, that it’s barely _anything_ , even as he joins the doctor during his smoke breaks and buys him a sandwich from the deli across the street. He’s memorised the doctor’s schedule, down to his surgeries, and even though their breaks hardly coincide, Ezra makes time to see him before his shift begins, feigning casualness as he asserts himself into the doctor’s everyday routine. 

Sometimes the doctor is alone in the break room, busy with the NY Times crossword, other times he’s surrounded by interns as he does his morning rounds. 

Dr Farrell winks at Ezra when they pass each other in the hallway, and Ezra feels, always, like he’s in on an illicit secret, of which only he and the doctor are privy to. Then the feeling dissipates and morphs into self-loathing, and he feels pathetic all at once, getting worked up over nothing.

*

Ezra elbows his way through the lunch line with hardly any mercy, emerging victorious with a tray of milk, a sorry excuse for a burrito, and two bananas. He spies John and a few other people he recognises at a table, but before he can make his way towards them, passes Dr Farrell eating alone. He’s poking listlessly at his salad, looking so forlorn that Ezra hesitates a second before making a sharp left turn to join him.

“Doctor,” he says, setting his lunch tray down with a thunk.

The doctor blinks in surprise. “Ezra.”

“Yeah,” Ezra says. The way he says his name with that accent of his never fails to make his spine sing.

He points at the doctor’s lunch tray. “Why are you eating a salad? That’s boring.”

Dr Farrell lets out a belly laugh. “Why do you think?” He pats his stomach, as if that’s all the explanation Ezra needs. 

“I don’t think you’re fat,” Ezra tells him, before he remembers himself and blushes. “It’s… _nice_. I mean, some people think it’s nice.”

“Do you?” the doctor asks, after a moment. 

“Yeah,” Ezra agrees, feeling light-headed all of a sudden, with the way the doctor is looking at him, serious with intent. “ _Sure_.”

The doctor’s jaw shifts, then, before he starts to nod, and Ezra is completely taken by surprise when he rises from his seat and dumps the contents of his tray in the trash. He walks back to the table, grabbing his phone and wallet. 

“I’m going to get myself some real food,” he announces,real mirth in his tone. “Would you like to come? There’s a free sandwich in it for you.”

Ezra finds himself unable to suppress a laugh. 

“There’s this deli, across the street,” The doctor begins to say, but Ezra interrupts him mid-sentence. “I know,” he tells Dr Farrell. “And yes, I’m always a slut for a free sandwich.”

“Terrible,” the doctor says. “That’s just terrible. For free sandwiches?”

“Yes,” Ezra says. “Are they kosher? Because I’m Jewish.”

The doctor nods. “Now you know my weakness,” Ezra says, and they walk side by side to the lobby, their arms brushing, Ezra trying his best to avoid anyone else’s prying gaze. There’s nothing wrong with accompanying a senior resident. Because that’s all there is to this, nothing more. 

It’s about to rain, from the looks of it, a light mist permeating the air, the skies darkening and thick with clouds. Ezra runs back to the locker room to grab his jacket, and pulls up the hood over his head when he joins Dr Farrell on the sidewalk. 

Next to him, the doctor taps the point of his umbrella on the ground, once, twice, three times, before snapping it open. 

If Ezra had been a girl, he’d have taken the doctor’s arm, leaned into his side, touched his elbow. He’d have laughed at all the right notes, flirted a little when the doctor made a joke, tilted his head to the side so that his face was close to his. 

But Ezra isn’t a girl, and much worse, an intern, so he keeps their shoulders at a respectable distance, avoiding the puddles quickly forming on the ground, and bumping into his side only by accident.

*

The rest of his lunch break passes by without fanfare — no urgent pages, or papers to finish in between patients, so he and the doctor have a few minutes to kill before they’re summoned back to the hospital. It’s nice, and Ezra allows himself the luxury of enjoying it for what it is. 

The food is warm, and the company even more so, and with their corner booth so cramped, their knees are practically pressed together under the table. 

They wait for the rain to peter out, windows fogging up with rain and mist, the headlights of passing cars cutting through the haze.

“I’d like to take you out,” the doctor says, once he’s finished his sandwich. He looks at Ezra plaintively, doesn’t touch Ezra’s hand outstretched on the table but it’s a near thing. “Will you let me take you out?”

“What?” Ezra says. “I’m not sure what you’re saying.”

“Nevermind,” the doctor backtracks, patting his mouth dry and chuckling in embarrassment. He looks everywhere but Ezra, tossing a rolled up paper napkin across the table and moving to stand. “It stopped raining a little,” he says, motioning to the window. “I think we can walk back now.” 

Without waiting for an answer, he heads for the door, Ezra taking a second to realise what had just happened before following him out.

“ _Wait_!” Ezra calls out. “ _Doctor!_ ” 

It takes only a few paces to fall into step with the doctor, and Ezra grabs at the sleeve of his coat to slow him down.

“Do you mean, like on a date?” he clarifies, because he can’t keep second-guessing himself every minute, not when it eats him up inside.“Because yes, doctor, I’ll go on a date with you,” he says. “I’d like that. I think. I’d really really like that.”

It takes the doctor a second to respond, and Ezra watches the complicated mix of emotions flitting across his face, like he can’t believe his luck, like he’d been steeling himself for rejection all along. 

The doctor nods, the seam of his mouth moving into an unreadable smile. 

“Okay,” he says, placidly. “Good.”

“Okay,” Ezra echoes. A breeze blows past them, sending newspapers flying across the sidewalk, and he shivers, leaning into the doctor’s side. He feels the doctor curl his arm around his shoulder, rather awkwardly at first, to tug him under the reach of his umbrella, but then he drops his hold the minute the hospital comes into view again, stepping to the side to give Ezra a wide berth.

Ezra shivers again, and rubs his elbows for warmth.

*

Doing rounds with the chief of medicine is about as intimidating as it sounds. It’s like being on a gameshow: the doctor puts you on the spot in front of a patient, and everything you’ve ever learned in med school flies out the window. Worse still — they’re herded from patient to patient like cattle, and expected to remember every case without the aid of a chart.

Every so often, Ezra’s not so lucky, and barely manages to dodge the rapidfire questions coming at him like shrapnel. He’s praised for doing a nice clean job with a patient’s foley catheter, even though he’s made a nurse do it for him, still too afraid to touch anybody, even three months deep into his internship. 

Some days are tolerable, but others are just downright worse, like when he’s on call with several patients under his care and on the last stretch of a twenty-four hour shift. He wants to hide in the supply closet, like he’s done on his first day as in intern, and let the exhaustion burn clean through him until he passes out on the floor. 

He isn’t cut out for this stuff, too sensitive and easily caught up in the day to day drama of his patients’ lives though he pretends not to care. He hates feeling frazzled all the time, like none of what he learned in school actually matters. He wonders how the other interns are faring, if they, like him, feel like they’re slowly going crazy.

*

It all comes to a head when a patient dies on him during his shift. 

Mr Phelps has been in poor health for a while, suffering from a myriad of complications, so it shouldn’t have been a surprise when the liver transplant doesn’t take. 

Still — it knocks Ezra off course, and he spends the next few hours with his mind racing, thinking about the many things he could’ve done differently. 

It leaves him feeling numb for the rest of the day, and he doesn’t even notice that he’s nearing the end of his shift until the attending tells him to knock it off and go home. “You’ve had a long night,” he says, tiredly, “Get some sleep, Mr. Miller. I’ll see you in the morning.”

Ezra pulls on a jacket, but doesn’t bother to change out of his scrubs otherwise, too tired to dig through the detritus of his locker. He trudges out the lobby, working on auto-pilot, when a car noses up the sidewalk and slows to a stop in front of him. 

The passenger window rolls down, and Dr Farrell pokes his head out. He’s wearing glasses tonight, round frames that reflect the light of the street and make his face seem a lot broader.

“Do you need a lift?”

*

Ezra doesn’t exactly remember what happens next. One minute, he’s standing on the sidewalk, wondering if he should take the doctor up on his offer, and the next, he’s in the passenger seat of that expensive car, ensconced in the buttery warmth of the leather interior and trying his best not to cry. He knows he’s fucked up today, and feels like a total failure because of it. 

Dr Farrell doesn’t have to ask him what’s wrong, because it hiccups right out of him the moment they hit the freeway, his breath catchingon every word as he launches into his story. 

Because the truth of the matter is, Ezra slept through most of his shift, had gone on more smoke breaks than he was allowed, and had failed to respond to half of his pages. 

Maybe if he cared more about patient care then Mr Phelps wouldn’t have died tonight; he says as much to the doctor who puts the car in park and switches the light on overhead. 

Dr Farrell hesitates before squeezing Ezra on the knee, and that’s all it takes before Ezra weakens and crumples into his embrace, burying his face against the lapels of his doctor’s coat which he’d forgotten to take off when he’d left the hospital. 

It smells like antiseptic, but also like limes, a scent uniquely his. Ezra fights off a full body shudder when the doctor starts rubbing his back though surprisingly, Ezra is the first one to pull away, wiping his face on the sleeves of his jacket and helping himself when the doctor hands him a kleenex to blow his nose. 

“I’m sorry to hear your patient died,” Dr Farrell says, once Ezra’s settled back into his seat and they start driving again. “It gets better,you know, and even if that’s probably not what you wanted to hear, it’s the truth. People die all the time, and you’re going to blame yourself constantly and wonder whether it’s your fault for not catching that infection in time, or that spot on the radiograph.”

Ezra blows his nose harder. 

“Now, you have to make a choice,” the doctor continues. “You can learn from this or let the guilt hang over your head for the rest of your life.” He pushes his glasses up his nose with his index finger. Even in the blue-black light of the evening, he looks handsome. “What’s it going to be, Ezra? Hm?”

Ezra doesn’t respond, watching the rows of houses they pass blur into an indistinguishable line. He snaps out of it when he feels the doctor’s hand on his knee, squeezing him in pulses, getting Ezra to look at him. “Shhh,” the doctor whispers. “ _Hey_.” Ezra touches his face, realising he’d been crying. 

The doctor smiles at him in sympathy, before leaning into him at the next red light, swiping Ezra’s face with the back of his hand. His touch is cool, but not clinical, and Ezra closes his eyes and rests his cheek in the doctor’s cupped palm. 

“There now,” says the doctor, looking at him in grave concern. “How are you feeling?”

Ezra reluctantly pulls away, and takes stock of his surroundings for the first time since the drive. 

He doesn’t recognise the street they’re in though he feels like he’s been in the neighborhood once before. 

They’re a long way’s away from his shitty neighborhood, that’s for sure, with rows of townhouses lining the block, all with immaculately kept lawns and expensive cars tucked in the driveways. “Where are we?” he asks.

“We’re headed to my place. Unless…” the doctor trails off.

Ezra swallows, and shakes his head. “No,” he says. “This, this is fine.”


	2. deux

 *

Ezra isn’t expecting anything to happen. 

He takes the doctor’s invitation, only because he’s tired, and he doesn’t feel like taking the subway home, or look forward to spending the next ten hours staring at his bedroom wall, feeling sorry for himself. 

The car smells like the doctor’s cologne — tangy, making him that little bit dizzy but in a good way that gives him a pleasant ache inside his chest like he’s just run a marathon. 

The fact that the doctor makes him feel exhilarated seems par for the course. The windows are down, the wind making hell out of the doctor’s hair as Ezra glances at him from the passenger side. 

There’s a duffel bag in the backseat, half open to reveal workout gear: a pair of off-white trainers, an over-sized college shirt with the sleeves sawed off, black Nike sweatpants. Ezra wonders how much of the doctor’s routine he’s interrupted. He feels like he’s imposed himself quite enough.

It’s too late now to backtrack, though. As the doctor putters to a stop in front of his block and noses his car up the driveway, Ezra wonders about the likelihood of sleeping with him tonight. 

A bottle of water keeps rolling against his foot and he picks it up to set it inside the glove compartment. The doctor touches him on the knee to get his attention, and Ezra starts and clutches his bag to his chest — a protective instinct. He doesn’t know why he’s suddenly so jittery.

Dr Farrell drops his car keys in the foyer. It’s one of those houses that have motion sensors, so the deeper they walk into the living room, the more lights flicker on like they’re in some kind of Kubrickian horror film. The last time Ezra had been here, he’d been quick to dismiss the interior, too caught up in making a good impression on his host, desperate not to impose. For the first time, he notices the lack of personal pictures framing the wall and decking the mantle. 

There are reprints of famous art pieces hanging from the wall in the hallway, but otherwise the furnishings are purely spartan: a flat-screen TV, a metal coffee table with a geometric steel base, a black leather grain sofa. 

Ezra tosses his bag onto the sofa and makes himself comfortable in a corner, doffing his jacket and short of kicking off his shoes. 

The doctor sets his bag down on the coffee table and starts to tug at his tie one-handed while picking up the cordless with his other hand and grabbing an accordion stack of takeout leaflets from the kitchen. 

When he re-emerges from the hall, he’s still struggling with the damn thing, phone pinched between his shoulder and jaw while he waits for the other line to pick up. 

Ezra takes pity on him and crawls across his seat, batting the doctor’s hands away from his neck and nearly halfway across his lap.The doctor looks at him in surprise, then bemusement, before his shoulders slump in defeat and he lets his hand drop to the side. 

Ezra tsks, undoing the knot with surprisingly steady fingers. He flicks his eyes up at the doctor once he finishes and the doctor meets his gaze just as squarely, smiling gently before freeing the tie from Ezra’s grip and tossing it onto the coffee table which it misses by a margin as it slithers across the floor. 

They’re jolted back to reality when the other line comes on. “Hello,” the doctor says abruptly. “Tao Lin’s?” He covers the mouthpiece with his hand. “Is Chinese okay?”

“I can eat anything,” Ezra promises him, and before the doctor can protest, adds, “Don’t worry about it not being kosher. I’m a non-practicing Jew, doc.” The doctor huffs out a laugh and nods, then rattles off a list of orders a mile long. 

*

Eventually, Ezra asks to use the shower. Dr Farrell shows him to the guest bathroom, much to his disappointment, and hands him an armful of fresh towels and a thick white robe. He stands there in the doorway, sans his tie, dress shirt rumpled beyond salvaging and baring his forearms. Then he pushes his glasses up his nose and places both hands on his hips, and that’s it, Ezra is gone, hit by a frisson — a tidal wave of something sweeping but will be hard-pressed to name.

“Call me if you need anything,” Dr Farrell says, nodding. “I’ll be right across the hall.”

“Sure,” Ezra says noncommittally. 

They stare at each other for a beat too long before the doctor clears his throat and excuses himself. Ezra has to pace the beating of his heart as he shuts the door behind him but doesn’t lock it. He hugs his bag to his chest and leans against the door for a good two minutes, waiting until he comes down from the inexplicable rush. 

Ezra is grateful for the guest robe. He’d left most of his clean clothing in his locker at the hospital, and only managed to bring a fresh change of underwear. 

The shelves lining the sink are, like the rest of the house, utilitarian, filled with a neat little row of miniature bottles of shampoo and shower gels from a bunch of different hotels in the tri-state area. Ezra is tempted to filch one, but then feels ridiculous afterward. He weighs himself on the digital scale by the toilet, delaying, at all costs, leaving the bathroom though he doesn’t know why. 

He feels nervous again. That must be it. 

The bathroom mirror has fogged up from the steam but his skin is still prickling in goosebumps. Ezra combs his hair with his fingers and then steps outside, barefoot as he navigates the house. He finds the doctor easily enough as they nearly bump to each other in the hall. It looks like he’s fresh from a workout: in a ratty shirt that’s drenched at the collar with sweat and sticking to his skin. 

A sports headband pushes the hair out of his face, making it stand in funny little tufts like nutgrass. 

The doctor smells like fresh sweat, but underneath Ezra can still detect a hint of cologne, the powdery scent of laundry detergent. It could just be a trick of the lighting, but the doctor’s face seems flushed too, and it makes Ezra think, it makes him think — 

“Hi,” Ezra says, from a lack of a better thing to say.He reddens, suddenly aware his hair is dripping wet lines across the tile, and that he’s naked underneath the robe, save for a pair of flimsy boxers. 

It makes him a little hard, knowing they’re all alone now,that they could do anything, anything at all that they want, right here, right now — but it’s surprisingly easy to curb the excitement when his chest feels like it’s about to explode from one of those chestbursters from _Alien._ He crosses his arms and uncrosses them again, a nervous tic he’s never managed to shake off since childhood. 

“Hey,” the doctor echoes. His eyes are warm behind his glasses. “The food won’t be long now,” he says, as if continuing a conversation they had left off. 

Ezra follows him dumbly into the kitchen where the doctor pours the two of them a glass of water each, on the counter. Ezra doesn’t drink his and instead watches the doctor surreptitiously. His forearms are covered with a film of wiry hair, and where his sleeves ride up his upper arms, the skin is pale, at odds with the bronzed outside of his biceps. He still has some definition in his arms, like he used to work out extensively in his youth but now couldn’t be bothered. 

When the doctor’s glass clinks against the ceramic, Ezra drags his gaze away from staring at the doctor’s long fingers spidering along his glass and blinks, mentally kicking himself for zoning out. 

Doctor Farrell is saying something — luckily when Ezra comes back to himself again, he’s able to pick up a few words here and there enough to make enough sense of what the doctor has been talking about. Dr Farrell fishes a couple of tens from his wallet and hands it to Ezra to pay for the food. “Just make yourself at home. I’ll be out in a second,” he tells him, before leaving Ezra to fend for himself.

*

It takes the food another twenty minutes to arrive and by then Ezra has already taken a self-guided tour of the doctor’s modest home. He makes a ton of money, that’s for sure, if the furniture is any indication. 

Ezra isn’t brave enough to let himself into any of the rooms but makes a mental checklist of the various bric-a-brac disguised as decor: a bamboo diorama depicting a rural Chinese landscape makes its home on the mantel, a brass pot of wilting orchids sits by the French windows, molting on the carpet. In comparison, Ezra’s own apartment is a shithole, an accumulation of stolen furniture from the curb and various odds and ends he’d picked up over the years since he moved to Brooklyn for college.

Ezra pays for the food when it arrives. 

The delivery boy asks for a _Mr_ _Colin Farrell,_ squinting at a crumpled note in his hand before handing Ezra bags of takeout stamped with the restaurant’s glossy logo, a pair of black chopsticks criss-crossing what appears to be a red bowl. 

Underneath it, in faux hànzì are the words _Tao Lin’s._ Ezra thanks the delivery boy and tips him from his own pocket. Belatedly, as he watches the guy putt away in his scooter, he wonders what this might look like to an outsider: Ezra, in a comfortable white robe and nothing else, alone in a sprawling house with a handsome man almost twice his age. He blushes and shuts the door with a solid thunk. 

When Ezra returns to the kitchen, the doctor is already there, drying his hair with a hand towel. He smiles in surprise when he sees Ezra. “I was wondering where you were.”

“Thought I’d disappeared on you, doctor?”

“Maybe,” Dr Farrell says, vaguely, looking promptly embarrassed.

Ezra sets the food on the table but they eat on the counter, low mien and glazed orange chicken with the inside still tender and fleshy. 

It strikes him as odd that he doesn’t mind the silence, the awkward pauses that punctuate their interaction when conversation hits a sudden lull. 

They both eat standing up, their elbows down on the counter, the doctor hunched over a box of egg rolls while Ezra stabs at cutlets of curry pork with his chopsticks. They smoke after dinner, watching the light drizzle from the patio. Then they put the leftovers away in tupperwares with Ezra drying the plates with a dish rag while the doctor tucks them away in a dish drawer under the sink. 

Migrating to the living room has its merits — it means Ezra can finally relax and not be so skittish all the time. He doesn’t realise it’s so late until he nods off during a rerun of _True Detective,_ his head pillowing the armrest, his arms cinched around a throw pillow. When he glances down at himself, he realises his feet are Dr Farrell’s lap, the doctor’s palm absently cupping his ankle. 

They must have fallen asleep at the same time. They’d been talking movies the whole night, flipping through Netflix, making abstract plans about seeing this and that together. 

Apparently, the doctor was a fan of the Opera. He’d had an expensive childhood, his parents coming from Old Money. Ezra shouldn’t be surprised, he kind of expected it at this point, though it’s little things like that that make him realise how little he really knows about Dr Farrell. 

He can’t even bring himself to call him by his first name, mostly because he feels like he hasn’t earned the right yet. But already he’s thinking, _Colin, Colin._ He lets the name roll across the skin of his teeth, settle on his tongue. _Colin._

From his angle, Ezra can see the uncomfortable way the doctor’s neck is craned. His glasses are in danger of slipping off the bridge of his nose again so Ezra crawls over very quietly and plucks it off his face with the tips of his fingers. 

The doctor stirs, unlike the last time, blinking a few times and grabbing Ezra gently by the wrists as he buoys himself back to the waking world. 

“Hey.” His voice is throaty.He makes to sit up.

“Don’t get up,” Ezra instructs him. He’s halfway into sitting in the doctor’s lap, one hand on the back of the sofa where the doctor’s head is reclined against. The doctor’s grip tightens against his pulse points and Ezra thinks about the strength in those hands but he meets the doctor’s gaze squarely and whispers, “Hi.”

The doctor hums, his entire face softening with a dreamy smile. “Ezra?”

Ezra shrugs in answer as the doctor’s grip loosens. He places both hands on the doctor’s shoulders, tipping him slowly onto his back and into a more comfortable position on the sofa. 

To his surprise, the doctor lets him, watching Ezra make quick work of his bedroom slippers before he nudges the doctor aside and presses himself along his front, back facing the doctor, Ezra’s spine touching the doctor’s chest. Dr Farrell smells wonderful, like clean soap and toothpaste. His hair tickles where it brushes Ezra’s neck.

“Uh,” the doctor says eloquently. He clears his throat a few times. 

“Is this okay?” Ezra asks. His voice is trembling. And he wonders if the doctor can hear how hard his heart is thumping in his throat. 

“Sure,” the doctor says after a minute of silence, though he mostly sounds uncertain. “Yeah. Uh. Why not.”

“You’re really warm,” Ezra tells him.

The doctor laughs, breaking the tension, his breath sending shivers skittering across the back of Ezra’s neck, the whole of his body, his toes. 

Ezra unspools in the doctor’s grip, like a statue sinking in water, slowly, slowly. 

“Thanks,” the doctor says, his lips nearly brushing Ezra’s ear. “I guess.”

They lapse into another silence, though this time it’s broken by Ezra’s loud yawn. He reaches for the remote on the coffee table to turn the television off and then takes the doctor’s arms and wraps them around his waist, compelled by the same courage that made him accept the doctor’s invitation tonight. He likes how snug Dr Farrell’s arms feel around his ribs, how broad the doctor is in comparison to him. 

He can feel where their bodies are aligned, the seam ofthe doctor’s pants where Ezra’s tailbone is pressed, his fingers splayed across Ezra’s left hip, casual like an afterthought. “I still can’t believe Mr Phelps died,” Ezra says after a long time, already half-asleep. 

The doctor doesn’t answer, but he squeezes Ezra’s middle and presses his face to the back of Ezra’s neck.

*

There’s a note taped to the fridge, some money on the counter for a cab. Ezra staggers into the guest bathroom to wash his face and piss, brushing his teeth with two fingers as he wanders the kitchen, foraging for food. 

Sunlight hollers into the windows, fillingthe kitchen with more morning light than he’s prepared to deal with at the moment. The doctor had already left for work, some time ago it seems; a mug of coffee in the sink has already started congealing. Ezra had woken up alone on the sofa with a crick on his neck and a blanket over him, his head feeling like it was filled with cotton wool from vague half-remembered dreams. 

Later he gives in to temptation and jerks off in the shower, one hand pressed against the tile in front of him as water beats down his shoulder blades. He’d dreamt of the doctor last night, the things Ezra would let him do to him if only he had the courage. 

He feels lousy afterwards, like he’d betrayed the doctor’s trust, dressing in the same clothes as last night and not trusting himself not to get hard again if he’d taken the spare change of clothes the doctor leaves for him on the sofa.

Ezra calls the number on the note — Dr Farrell’s presumably, — but it goes straight to voicemail. He must either be driving or on-call. Ezra saves the number under _Doctor,_ doesn’t take the money from the counter, and instead takes the subway home to beat the rush hour traffic already starting to bottleneck _._

He showers again as soon as he gets back to his apartment, has a leisurely nap, and stands for a good fifteen minutes by the fridge, cradling a mug of coffee against his chest like an infant and staring blankly at a spot on the wall. He definitely doesn’t think about the doctor. 

Just as he’s topping off the last dredges of his lukewarm coffee and getting ready for work, his phone buzzes on the nightstand. It’s a text from the doctor: _are you still at the house._ Ezra can’t help the smile threatening to split his face and has to wait another minute before typing out a reply: _no._

_Shame,_ the doctor writes back. _I guess I’ll see you at the hospital. I have surgery at 2._ Ezra tells him his shift doesn’t start until two in the afternoon, but that he can meet the doctor for a quick lunch before then. 

It’s bold — but then again. _Can’t,_ the doctor replies, snapping Ezra out of a fresh new wave of self-doubt. _I have a meeting with the board, something about a charity._ And then: _did I snore last night?_ It almost seems incongruous that someone like him would worry about something trivial like that but then again it feels totally in keeping with the rest of his personality. 

_I can’t remember,_ Ezra tells him honestly. _I don’t think you did. Did I snore?_ He doesn’t get a reply until much later, when he’s dozing on the train and he jerks in his sleep when his phone buzzes in his pocket. 

Walking into the hospital feels like walking into the twilight zone, everything is exactly the same but at the same time isn’t. Ezra feels like everyone somehow knows he’s spent the night at Dr Farrell’s, even though it’s a ridiculous thought and he has nothing to be ashamed of. 

They didn’t have sex. They haven’t even started seeing each other.

“You okay?” John asks when they change into their scrubs in the locker room. Ezra shrugs and tugs his shirt over his head. 

“Interesting night?” John continues. 

“What,’ Ezra says, his forearms stuck in his shirt as he turns to John like a headless chicken. John pulls his shirt down for him and gives him a funny look. “I’m not gonna pry, dude, if you’d rather keep it to yourself, but you left pretty early last night and didn’t show up at the bar.”

“Right.” Ezra had forgotten _that_ commitment. In his defense, he almost always makes plans with one foot out the door. “Sorry. I’ll buy everyone drinks next time.”

“Cool,” John says but he’s barely listening as he straps his pager to his belt. He slides a clicker pen into his breast pocket, styling his hair in the mirror above the sink, combing his fringe into submission. “Ready to face these asshole doctors, Miller?”

*

Work is, thankfully, unchanged, and Ezra almost forgets about his unusual evening until he gets a text during his lunch break. Doctor’s hours are hellish, so he doesn’t get a moment to himself until eight at night, straddling the bench in the locker room as he munches on a hoagie. 

It’s a text from the doctor; he’s just gotten home. Ezra’s glad he hasn’t seen him all day because he probably won’t know what to say to him otherwise. A part of him wonders if he’d gotten hard in his sleep. 

_Shit, shit, shit —_ But before he can torture himself with that thought, his phone buzzes again with another message: _Left you something in the break room._ True enough, pinned behind a fridge magnetic is an enveloped addressed to Ezra. He rifles inside — two tickets tot he Metropolitan Opera House for the opening night of _Giselle._ Ezra blinks. 

_This is in two weeks,_ Ezra texts back. His mind races. He sends another message before waiting for a reply: _are you asking me out on a date, doctor?_

_What if I was?_

_I’ll have to think about it._ Then because he doesn’t want to be misinterpreted, he follows it up with a: _yes, I’ll go with you,_ punctuating the statement with a series of smiling emojis _._

“Why are you smiling?” John asks suspiciously as he enters the break room and throws himself across the sofa. He turns the TV on to Fox News, thinks better of it, then switches it off with the remote. 

Ezra shrugs as he pockets his phone. “Just saw something funny on my Facebook wall.”

John seems entirely unconvinced, his eyebrows raised skeptically but he leaves Ezra well alone because he’s on call tonight and frankly doesn’t really give a shit what anybody does as long as it doesn’t interfere with work.

The next two weeks can’t speed by fast enough. Ezra counts the days leading up to the date, half-convinced it’s all a joke until the actual day itself rolls around and he finds himself standing half-dressed in front of his hallway mirror, wondering what to wear to the Opera House short of looking like someone’s rejected prom date. His mother calls him because she knows he’s got tonight off, which in medical intern parlance means Ezra has less than 24 hours to turn in all his paperwork. 

She asks him what he’s doing and Ezra decides to be honest enough about the fact he’s going on a date, leaving out the fact that it’s with the hospital’s chief of surgery. “He’s taking me to the Opera House, mom,” he complains into the phone, perched at the edge of bed with his elbows on his knees. “The man is fancy.”

“Ivy League?” his mom hazards a guess.

“Yeah, I guess,” Ezra laughs awkwardly. In the end, he settles for a plain white t-shirt under a nondescript dinner jacket, the same jacket he’d brought along with him from Jersey, and worn only during two separate occasions: first at his dad’s funeral last spring andnext, the hospital’s welcoming orientation. 

He can’t do anything about his hair at this point, unless he feels like getting a last minute haircut, so he ties it with a rubber band before grabbing a navy blue scarf from behind the door and taking the stairs two at a time. 

It takes the doctor’s Uber ten minutes to arrive at which point Ezra’s halfway considering running back upstairs and changing out of his clothes. 

He contemplates a smoke, but doesn’t want his breath to smell like cigarettes tonight so he tamps down on the craving, purposefully leaving his cigarettes on the kitchen counter. 

“Do you have the tickets?” The doctor asks, looking so handsome in a black suit and tie, with his hair parted to one side. His beard looks like it’s been trimmed recently. 

Ezra pats around his jacket and breathes a sigh of relief once he fishes the crumpled envelope from his inside pocket.

“Yeah, I do,” he breathes. The doctor smiles. His hand never leaves Ezra’s knee the whole time and the touching continues well into the night, up until they find their seats on the balcony and settle down. 

Ezra’s never been a fan of the opera, is the thing, but he knows just how much this means to the doctor so he tries to keep himself upright and not fall asleep in between intermissions. 

Showing up in a dinner jacket had been the best idea apparently because everyone is decked to the nines. He’s still a little underdressed, but Ezra likes that it gives him a degree of nonchalance, like he hadn’t spent two hours agonizing over what to wear so he doesn’t embarrass himself or the doctor.

How people enjoy discordant singing remains a mystery, and Ezra tries to put a brave face but falls asleep before the second intermission, chin resting on a hand and listing to the side. He excuses himself to the men’s room and almost gets lost in the maze of plush staircases and balconies. 

When he finishes washing his face, intermission is almost over and people have started heading back to their seats. Ezra almost loses the doctor in the crowd but spots him just in time standing by the Chagall mural in the lobby. The doctor pushes himself off the wall, then raises his hand in a wave.

“Is this boring you?” is the first thing the doctor asks him. He looks concerned.

“What?” Ezra splutters. “No, not at all.”

Dr Farrell gives him a disbelieving look. “You’ve been texting half the time, or sleeping.”

Ezra wants to kick himself for that. 

The back of his ears prickle in shame. “Sorry,” he sighs. “It’s my first time at the Opera, and I’m not exactly what you’d call refined.” 

He rolls his eyes at himself, but is interrupted when his phone buzzes in his pocket. The doctor watches him carefully as he swipes through the lock screen and opens the message. It’s his friend Rob from college. 

_Sons,_ Ezra’s college band is playing a venue nearby and Rob wants to know if Ezra is free. Ezra had already told him he was busy tonight, but _Sons_ had been short one man ever since Ezra started his internship at the hospital and they’ve been looking for a replacement ever since, though none would stick. 

The band had been Ezra’s life all throughout college; he remembers playing seedy hipster bars in Williamsburg, making nothing but chump change or being paid in gift certificates. 

Nowadays, it’s mostly Rob and Lilah’s thing, because working at the hospital hardly affords Ezra any free time that isn’t spent revising papers.

Rob sends him another text, a string of sad emojis and an eggplant. Ezra laughs. _Asshole. It’s just a date. I don’t put out on the first date. T_ he doctor looks at him curiously. He must think Ezra has lost his mind. 

Suddenly, he’s struck with an idea. 

It’s spur of the moment, but all of the greatest decisions of his life often are, except that time he’d gotten into a fist fight in bible camp and nearly strangled another boy with the loop of a trombone. 

“Hey, do you want to just ditch the show?” Ezra asks. He’s aware he could’ve phrased himself differently but he’s never been known for his tact or his eloquence. Foot, meet mouth. 

“God,” he groans, burying his face in his hands. “I’m sorry. That came out wrong. What I meant to say is that my band is playing nearby and I was wondering if you’d like to come see them.”

“You have a band?”

“I say my band, but I haven’t really played with them since spring. You want to check us out?” He sways on the balls of his feet, then grins, saying in sing-song, “I’ll even play a song for you. Do you like The Rolling Stones or The Beatles?”

“The Doors,” The doctor says, just to be an asshole. He grins, but then it disappears all too quickly. “ _Fuck_. I forgot I made us dinner reservations at The Grand Tier.”

“We can still make it if we hurry. I mean, we can always take the subway back. We won’t be too long,” Ezra promises. “Just a couple of songs, then we’ll hit the road.”

“All right,” the doctor acquiesces. 

“All right?” Ezra echoes. He peers into the doctor’s face for any signs of doubt and blushes under Dr Farrell’s soft gaze. 

“Cool,” he says lamely. Then, before he chickens out, Ezra grabs the doctor’s wrist and leads him out the door.

*

The Dive Bar is between Broadway and Amsterdam, an underground bar that may have well as been someone’s basement, furnished like you were on the set of _Cheers_. 

Normally, _Sons_ stayed away from playing in the Upper West Side because of the kind of crowd it drew but the Dive Bar seemed to fit their aesthetic down to a tee: linoleum floors and old wood panelling, an old-school neon sign flickering every so often, the ‘e’ all but busted. 

You had to follow a grated metal staircase that led to the very bowels of the building it was housed in. 

On a makeshift platform, Ezra can see Rob and Lilah already getting ready, tuning their equipment while the rest of the patrons mill about with their drinks and mind their own business. 

Ezra waves as he approaches. A third guy, someone Ezra doesn’t recognize, with white-boy dreadlocks and wearing a tie-dyed shirt, is behind the drums. 

“Dude,” Ezra says, as Rob cuffs him lightly on the shoulder. 

“I thought you were going to be a no-show.” Rob glances over Ezra’s shoulder, up at the doctor, and Ezra blushes, almost knocking into him elbow-first. He hadn’t realised that the doctor had been standing close by, hovering just over his shoulder. 

“This is — this is my date,” Ezra says, biting his lip and inwardly cringing. He tries his best to make peace with that statement. His date, the doctor, looking so out of place in this shitty bar, but oh so very handsome in his peacoat and suit, with his hair slicked back. His date, the doctor, who made dinner reservations at The Grand Tier, making Ezra feel like a proper adult for the first time in his life. 

Rob thrusts out a hand to shake the doctor’s. “I’ve heard _so_ much about you.” He smirks at Ezra and leers. “ _Rob_.”

Ezra rolls his eyes. “Ignore him, he’s just trying to embarrass me,” he snorts.

“Colin,” the doctor says easily enough, meeting Rob’s handshake with both hands. “Nice set-up you have here. I used to play in a band back in my day. In Dublin.”

“Did you?” Ezra asks, amazed.

“No,” the doctor laughs. He sounds sheepish. “I don’t know why I just said that, to be honest.”

Ezra elbows him in the side. “You want to get a drink?” He drags the doctor in the direction of the bar, looping his arm through his. “I can’t promise you quality alcohol but I can guarantee you a good time. Guinness?”

“How’d you know?”

“Just a hunch,” Ezra grins. “You seem like the type.”

“And what type am I?” the doctor asks. His tone seems all at once intrigued and elated, and 

Ezra wonders precisely when they’ve crossed over the line to flirting. 

There’s an empty stool at the bar so Ezra pushes the doctor down to sit, making a show of brushing the shoulders of his coat of invisible dust and lint. 

On the stage behind them, Lilah is starting up the keyboard, playing the first key notes of _Long Lost Highways_ while Rob rattles on the tambourine, eyes half-shut _._

“I’m trying to figure that out myself, doctor,” Ezra says, not meeting the doctor’s eyes. “Give me time, and I’ll tell you.”

*

Ezra’s a little rusty, given that the life of a med student doesn’t warrant enough joy that he often finds himself singing. 

During the first few weeks of his internship, he caught up on sleep on the train, whether he was lucky enough to be sitting or standing, hanging from the handrail — or crushed by the lunchtime crowd during rush hour. The depth of his exhaustion knew no bounds. 

When Lilah singles him out in the crowd, Ezra balks and nearly spits out his beer, the doctor rubbing his shoulder consolingly as Ezra shoots Lilah a milk-curdling glare from the bar. “We have Dr Miller in our midst tonight, and he’s going to play us a song.” 

There’s a few scattered claps as Ezra rolls his eyes and makes a slashing motion across his neck but he gamely climbs onto the makeshift platform and accepts the mic Rob swings in his direction. They’re halfway to a set, doing covers of popular 80’s songs to get the crowd riled up, plus a few of their own Ezra remembers having penned himself. 

When Rob starts playing the intro to Cindi Lauper’s _Time After Time,_ Ezra laughs and shakes his head, doffing his dinner jacket and tugging his hair free from its ponytail. He resolutely doesn’t look at the doctor, though he glances in his direction from time to time to see him watching Ezra intently, his hands steepled in his lap, an unreadable expression in his face. 

Ezra’s not the best singer — _Sons_ has always been a lo-fi experimental folk band — but he’s pleased at the outcome, all things considered, after a resounding wave of applause and cheers punctuates the end of the song. He moseys on over to where the doctor is leaning against the bar, nursing a gin at his elbow, still with that inscrutable look on his face that Ezra thinks makes him all the more mysterious. 

Ezra’s always known that gin made an angry drunk but it seems to have the opposite effect on the doctor. The more he drank, the gentler he appeared, the softer his hard edges seemed. 

“You were perfect,” the doctor tells him. 

Ezra feels his face go hot at the compliment. “I’m a little out of practice,” he confesses. This is true; he’s aware that he’s missed a few notes, that he’d sung out of tune more than a few times. “But thanks.”

“I mean it,” the doctor assures him. “You were great out there.” This time, Ezra’s face goes even brighter. 

The doctor glances down at his watch — expensive, from the looks of it, and then up again, at Ezra, smiling gently. “You know, I think we can still make that reservation if we hurry.” 

Ezra texts Rob and Lilah goodbye, and lets the doctor hustle him into the back of a cab. 

They’re back on 65th Street in no time at all, despite the traffic choking into motion, though they walk the rest of the way to the restaurant, trying to outrun the drizzle already condensing in the air. 

They eat foie gras, drinking white wine with their meat, and the doctor orders them soup made of raspberries and champagne. It’s easily the fanciest dinner Ezra’s ever been taken to, though that isn’t saying much considering most of his dates think grabbing coffee at the Barnes & Noble on Fifth Avenue is the epitome of romantic. 

And if Ezra’s being entirely honest with himself, none of those dates ever made him feel this way, like he’s standing on a precipice, like he’s at the highest peak of a rollercoaster right before the plunge. 

Whether this leads to something great or will turn out to be one of the worst decisions of his life remains to be seen, but for now he plans to see it all the way through.

*

The doctor insists on walking him back to his apartment.

It’s a little ridiculous and corny, but secretly Ezra loves that kind of shit, no matter how often or hard he denies it. He pretends they’re in a movie, walking in the rain that’s slowly starting to peter out, hand in hand after Ezra grabs the doctor’s purely out of impulse. 

They take an Uber back to his neighborhood, and Ezra stands on the third step of his apartment stoop while the doctor remains on the sidewalk, hands in his coat pockets, hair slightly mussed from the rain. 

It’s late, almost midnight, and the street is deserted, the light from the street lamps casting half of the doctor’s face in shadow, as if highlighting how fraught the situation is, or completely innocuous. 

Ezra hops the last few steps down so that he’s eye-level with the doctor who grabs him by the waist when he nearly tips over on a crack on the step.“I had a great time,” he says, the blandest pronouncement in the world. He may as well be a Harlequinn heroine. 

The doctor laughs. “Same. It was a treat seeing you tonight. I think I wouldn’t mind doing that again.”

“Maybe a movie next time though,” Ezra says, flushing. “I’m too much of a simpleton to enjoy the Opera. But thank you, really.” He feels dizzy even as he says this, standing so close to the doctor he can smell the tang of his cologne. 

Ezra puts his hands on the doctor’s shoulders, on level now because of the added height the step lends him, and lets his fingers rest there, very briefly before he cups the doctor’s face in his hands. His beard tickles Ezra’s palms.

“I’m going to kiss you now,” the doctor says, entirely too serious for his own good. “You probably shouldn’t make any sudden movements.”

“Well,” Ezra breathes, sucking in a tiny gasp. He counts to three in his head before responding, his chest deflating like a balloon. “I’m very excitable but I’ll try my best.”

“Good boy,” the doctor teases, and then he’s kissing Ezra without preamble, his hands curling around Ezra’s hipbones, his mouth tasting of wine and raspberries. 

He sneaks his tongue out to touch the seam of Ezra’s lips, but before Ezra can reciprocate and tilt his head back, a loud honk cuts the moment short. He’s still panting and out of breath when he sneaks a peek over the doctor’s shoulder to where the Uber-car is double-parked right across the street, the passenger side window rolled down.

The driver pokes his head out and taps his watch impatiently. “I haven’t got all day, sirs, so if you wouldn’t mind getting a move on?”

Ezra goes bright red. The doctor grunts, ignoring the comment, kissing Ezra a few more times for good measure, small noisy kisses, devoid of any tongue. Ezra keeps his eyes closed the whole time and nearly yelps when the doctor cops a feel of his ass. 

“Sorry,” the doctor croaks. “Sorry, I’m sorry—” 

“No, I mean, by all means—”

The driver honks his horn incessantly.

Ezra rolls his eyes. He feels like a teenager all over again, already hard from a few innocent kisses. He lets the doctor kiss him one final time, this time long and hard, that by the time they both pull away, Ezra’s mouth damp from spit, he can swear he’s seeing stars. 

Ezra wants nothing more than to invite the doctor up to his apartment, revisions be damned. They’ll make out in his tiny single bed and Ezra will let the good doctor fuck him without protection, bent over the sofa or on all fours on the floor. Ezra’ll blow him before riding his thick, hard cock, make himself come without touching, a complete prostate orgasm. He wants the doctor to push him onto his back and grab him by the ankles, pound him deep into the mattress until the bedframe shakes and the neighbors complain about the noise; fuck him six ways into Sunday so that Ezra’s so full of come that it drips down his thighs every step of the way; fuck his mouth too until he’s choking, and make him his, replete.

Ezra shivers, coaxed away from the fantasy by the doctor’s hands on his wrists. 

“He’s not gonna get a good review from me, that’s for sure,” the doctor mutters when the driver honks his horn again. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Ezra,” he says.

“Doctor,” Ezra nods, still lost in his daydream. He lists to the side, clumsy with alcohol, but the doctor catches him in time, broad hands fanned around his ribs, reasserting Ezra’s center of gravity. 

_God_ , Ezra thinks, as he lets the doctor hold him for a little while. He’s the handsomest man to ever walk Ezra home. Ezra must have said that out loud because the doctor blinks at him, then smirks. 

“Colin,” the doctor corrects him, still with a small smile as he walks backwards to the car. 

“You can call me Colin, Ezra.” He chuckles, tipping an invisible hat at Ezra, and Ezra finds himself charmed all over again, wishing the doctor would just lean out the window of the car and give him another kiss.

 

*

By the end of the week, Ezra’s settled into a routine with the doctor — with _Colin_ , he corrects himself hastily — who picks him up after shift so they can have dinner together and watch a movie at his house. A lot of the time, this results in Ezra falling asleep midway into _Sons of Anarchy,_ which isn’t a lot of fun, anyway, truth be told, it’s just a bunch of white people on motorcycles dealing drugs and complaining about their marriage. 

One thing he notices about Colin is the fact he eats a lot of takeout. Neither them has the time to cook because of the crazy hours they work, but Ezra makes a mental note to dig through his mom’s old recipe books on his next visit home. 

Colin works quite the appetite after a workout and often goes through an entire box of pizza all by himself, and it can’t be healthy, not at his age, though Ezra is one to talk, decimating cheetos for breakfast and stuffing his mouth with Reese’s peanut butter cups in between patients. He has this weird fantasy, every time he answers the door to get the takeout, of being part of Colin’s household, wearing a white robe in the morning and taking the dog out while Colin is asleep even though Colin doesn’t have a dog and is probably allergic. 

He’ll get the paper and put the coffeemaker on before getting started on breakfast, and then proceed to wake Colin upstairs with kisses to his face and neck, his chest. 

*

One night, Ezra wakes up from a confusing dream where he’d been wearing women’s lingerie, with silver straps as thin as gossamer threads dangling from his shoulders, and red silk panties covering his cock. He got hard, remembering the dream, remembering Colin fucking him in it and calling him sweetheart, tipping him onto his back so he could enter him more swiftly, Ezra’s ankles clutched in his strong grip. 

In the dream, Ezra’s hair had been longer, fanning out like a dark curtain across the white bedspread. His hipbones had been more prominent, undulating like liquid with every thrust of Colin’s hips, his ribs stark under the thickness of Colin’s fingers. He’d been beautiful. When he woke, Colin was asleep next to him, snoring softly, curled up on his side with the lamp still on on the nightstand. Ezra hugged him from behind then plucked the book from his lap before reaching over to turn the lamp off, and then stumbling into the bathroom, in the dark.

*

They haven’t had sex yet, unless you count Ezra being pressed against the kitchen counter and felt up under his shirt, kissed within an inch of his life. 

Colin kissed him whenever he could, though often not within the vicinity of the hospital, in case they get caught. 

Colin kissed him while standing by the sink as they did the dishes and put away the cutlery. He kissed him while he was fresh from a shower, his hair drippingwet lines on his white t-shirt, making it all the more translucent. 

Colin kissed him with tongue, with teeth, leaning him against the fridge with his hand resting absently on Ezra’s hip. Always, he waited until Ezra was comfortable enough before touching him anywhere else: his ass, the back of his thighs, the small of his back. 

A few times, Ezra had tried to jump into his arms, like he’d seen people do in movies or porn, Colin’s cue to catch him and carry him to bed. But life isn’t like movies or porn, and because Colin has a back problem, they almost always end up staggering back to the living room, out of breath and nearly careening into walls, Ezra holding onto Colin’s shoulders for dear life. 

Still, it drives Ezra a little stir-crazy from time to time, the lack of sex. 

He jerks off in the shower whenever he spends the night over and wonders if Colin can hear him beating off in the bathroom. Half the time, Ezra hopes he can and will do something about it. He’s constructed an elaborate fantasy of Colin catching him in the act and lending him a hand, which accounts for his never locking the door to the bathroom. 

One night, Ezra weakens and decides to rock the boat. He’s finishing paperwork or at least attempting to, having read the same paragraph five times over and deleting a comma only to replace it with another one two seconds later. Colin is in his favourite chair, checking his e-mails on his iPad, frowning softly as he swipes through the screen. 

Ezra sets his laptop down on the coffee table and slinks over to Colin’s chair, pulling the iPad from his loose grip and seating himself in his lap. He curls an arm around Colin’s shoulders, bringing his legs up to drape across Colin’s knees, like some kind of crude imitation of a kid in Santa’s lap. 

Colin looks at him curiously but doesn’t say anything, though he lets out a pleased hum when Ezra tilts his face up and starts kissing him, slow at first, and then more boldly with tongue. The novelty of kissing someone with a beard still hasn’t worn off. 

It leaves Ezra’s face a little itchy, sure, but he likes to imagine the coarse scratch of Colin’s beard rasping the inside of his thighs, the lines of his ribs. 

Sunspots dance in his vision for a moment and he pulls away to look Colin in the eye, fingers splayed across his chest as they catch their breath. Even in the low light of the room, Ezra can see the way Colin’s eyes have darkened with lust, his lips parting just a fraction. Ezra swivels his hips — and there it is, digging a solid line against his ass: Colin’s rock-hard cock, big, _god_ , bigger than Ezra could ever have dreamed. 

Ezra rocks his hips experimentally, dragging his ass along the seam of Colin’s pants, thanking his lucky stars that Colin’s in sweatpants, fresh from a shower. He can feel him, warm under the layers, and has to squash the urge to moan like some ten dollar twink.

“Ezra,” Colin grunts, grabbing him by the wrist. He has a plaintive look in his eyes, like he’s not sure what he’s asking for. 

“I wanna feel you,” Ezra tells him, twisting his hand out of Colin’s grip and seating his ass directly on his cock. “Let me?”

He shimmies out of his pyjama bottoms without waiting for answer, leaving his underwear on as he makes himself comfortable in Colin’s lap. 

Ezra rides his ass over Colin’s dick, and it’s ridiculous how turned on he is from that contact alone when they’re not even naked. Ezra keeps his gaze fixed to a spot on the wall and groans when Colin reaches for a nipple under his shirt, tweaking it between his thumb and forefinger, pinching hard enough to hurt. 

His other hand is gripping Ezra’s left hip in a vice-like grip as Ezra bounces around in his lap, rolling his hips, feeling his dick up with his ass. He has half the mind to kick off his boxers and let Colin fuck him, then and there, never mind that he hasn’t had penetrative sex in a long time or masturbated with more than two fingers up his ass. 

Ezra comes almost instantly when Colin cups a hand over his erection, already leaking an embarrassing wet spot in his boxers before he even fills the cotton with his come.He hears Colin gasp sharply behind him, and then feels him shudder before going limp. He doesn’t ease the hold he has on Ezra’s hip even after he comes, his hand still slid inside Ezra’s shirt, his mouth pressed to the back of Ezra’s neck. 

Ezra slumps back against him, pillowing his head on Colin’s shoulder, craning his neck as Colin drops a warm open-mouthed kiss to the corner of his cheek. 

Coming in his underwear is disgusting but Ezra wants nothing more than to sleep now, with Colin’s arms like warm bands around his chest. His eyes feel suddenly heavy, his legs shaky like they’re made from rubber. He knows he ought to feel embarrassed from what he just did, but orgasms like those just leave him feeling exhilarated and sexy, like he can do anything, be anyone.

“You’ve made a mess of us, darling,” Colin says with a light laugh, nosing Ezra’s cheek, scratching him with his beard. It’s the first time the doctor’s ever called Ezra anything but his name. 

Ezra feels it move under skin like a fever. He shivers and when Colin kisses him again, Ezra grabs his hand and twines their fingers together, blinking in surprise when Colin brings Ezra’s hand up to his face to kiss each individual knuckle. 

After separate showers, Ezra climbs into bed with Colin, curling himself around his middle like cartoon smoke, and letting his head rest against the broad expanse of his chest, warm under his cheek under the thin layer of his shirt. It doesn’t take long for him to find sleep. 

*

Often, when one aspect of Ezra’s life goes well, another has the tendency to become completely pear-shaped. 

He blames it on his luck; nothing ever goes his way. Even when he’d been a dumb kid in Jersey, this has always been true: making honors class but having no friends, winning tickets to London from a contest on the radio but having to skip the flight after his mom gets into a car accident. He got into med school, but his dad died before Ezra could make resident. And then there’s this thing, now, with the doctor: it’s only a matter of time until something or other goes to shit. 

Ezra’s counting on it. His mom would accuse him of being maudlin, but she doesn’t know him quite as well as he does. He just hopes the good feeling lasts, and that it’s all worth it, in the end.

*

They’ve been careful in the last few months not to get caught. Ezra joins Colin during his smoke breaks and sometimes for lunch when the food served in the cafeteria approaches something edible, but otherwise, no one suspects a thing.

Ezra makes sure he doesn’t get too close to him or appear too friendly or flirt with him in public; he may be naive but he isn’t stupid. The last thing he needs is to drum up suspicion. Ezra minds his own business, keeps his nose out of trouble, turns his paperwork on time and pretends that he isn’t absently thinking about the chief of surgeon when he’s suturing bananas to practice his stitches. 

Even the other interns don’t suspect a thing, still gossiping about Colin and making crazy assumptions about the kind of girls or guys he might be into. He’s still Mr Popular among the younger doctors, idolised and revered like some kind of god. 

John, clutching a veggie burrito, says he could be into prostitutes.

“You’re disgusting.” Ezra tells him, when John mimes a blowjob, complete with hollowed out cheeks and eyes rolling back in their sockets. He grins at Ezra when Ezra stares back at him dully. “But no, seriously, I heard he had an affair with an intern or something, and that’s why his wife left him. Guy couldn’t keep it in his damn pants.”

Ezra lets that sink in for a second before flipping through the magazine in his lap, one page at a time. He doesn’t process any of the words, just the almost mechanical glide of pages under his thumb as he robotically leafs through them.

“I’m sure that isn’t true,” he says faintly, but even he doesn’t sound convinced. There are a lot of things they haven’t talked about yet. Ezra hasn’t pried into Colin’s private life, mostly because Colin’s never really asked him about his, and he realises now that he knows nothing, nothing at all. He’d been an idiot, all this time. 

John shrugs, and continues to eat his burrito, chewing open-mouthed only because he knows it pisses Ezra off. “There’s this intern, from General Surgery, and I see him following the doctor around like some sort of grade grubber cum eager puppy. Barry? You know the guy?” 

He jerks his head to validate the claim with Lizzie, a chubby blonde girl in pigtails and wire-rimmed glasses, painting her nails in the corner — also from Internal Medicine. 

Lizzie hums in agreement but otherwise says nothing. “So, see, he’s not the saint everyone thinks he is. The man has secrets. Won’t be long until he has Barry riding his fucking dick in the storage room—”

“You have no idea what the fuck you’re talking about,” Ezra snaps. His voice has risen an octave without him having realised it. “ _Shut the fuck up, man,_ ” He hisses and rolls his magazine tightly before tossing it aside.

John, surprised at his outburst, stops mid-chew before shaking his head and scooping a piece of guac from his lap. “Jesus, no need to get so worked up, Miller. I was only kidding.”

“Yeah, well, it ain’t funny,” Ezra tells him, still in the same snappy tone. He makes to leave, feeling stupid about losing his temper over something trivial, and is saved from any potential awkwardness when his pager beeps at his belt. “That’s me,” he says, resigned. “I’ll see you guys later.”

“Yeah, well, whatever,” John calls after him. His voice follows Ezra out the door. “Learn to lighten up a little, dude!”


	3. trois

Possibly, Ezra’s biggest flaw is his tendency to obsess. He’s good at that: finding problems where there are none, prying open cans of worms, never knowing when to stop.He picks apart situations to dissect later and hold under the microscope, and lets the littlest thing drive him up the wall.

People often accuse him of self-sabotage when really, it’s more of a survivalist instinct honed after years of suburban middle class disappointment. When you expect less from everybody, there’s no investment, and the regret doesn’t hit you quite as hardbecause you’ve anticipated the let-down.

It’s probably the weather speaking, but this kind of downswing in mood is not unusual for him this time of year. He’s burnt out from his internship, and because this thing with Colin is fragile and brand new, he treats it with kid gloves. 

The comment about Barry has cemented Ezra’s worst fears, proving he doesn’t know Colin at all and that he’s way in over his head. Ezra knows he’s being melodramatic but he can’t help wondering what else he doesn’t know about the doctor.  

*

Over the course of the next few days, Ezra tries to catch him in the act — of doing what, _precisely_ , he isn’t sure — but then everything stays the same down to the minutiae of their routine: dinner every Thursday, sometimes a movie, catching each other during smoke breaks; lunch, if they could afford the time, at the deli across the street where Ezra keeps his shoes pressed to Colin’s under the table while they order bagels and turkey and swiss on rye.  

And then one day, on impulse, Ezra asks Colin to come over to his apartment where they eat the shitty TV dinner Ezra’s microwaves for five and a half minutes that nearly scalds their tongue. 

They sit in Ezra’s bed watching _Breaking Bad_ on Ezra’s laptop, Ezra’s head resting on Colin’s shoulder as Colin tries valiantly not to doze off after his five hour surgery. Ezra doesn’t know what makes him say it, what strange predilection suddenly comes over him, but then he asks Colin point-blank if he knows anyone named Barry, disrupting the peaceable stillness settling all around them.

Colin tilts his face down, the angle giving him a double chin as he pushes his glasses up his nose. He doesn’t respond until after a beat, blinking at Ezra owlishly. “Barry?”he repeats, scrunching his forehead. “One of the interns I supervise from General Surgery is named Barry. Why do you ask?”

And then Ezra opens his stupid mouth and tells him, _stupidly_ , about what John had said to him before: the whole messy ordeal about the alleged affair. 

Colin looks at him for a long time before sitting up, jarring Ezra’s head so he has to sit up too, mirroring Colin’s stance. 

“Well?” Ezra prompts.

“Are you really asking me if I had an affair?” Colin says. And then: “Is this why you’re asking about Barry?” He sighs, looking tired, rubbing the corner of his glasses with the hem of his shirt. “He’s just an intern,” he says, finally. 

“So am I,” Ezra says. 

Colin looks at him again, forehead creased in three lines. When his phone starts skittering across the nightstand, Ezra finally has an excuse to break eye contact. 

It’s a tiny apartment so Ezra can still hear him as he takes the call in the kitchen, the thump of his footsteps muffled by the walls, his voice carrying across the apartment. When he returns, Ezra’s already shut the laptop off and playing Tetris on his phone, trying to affect a nonchalance he doesn’t feel at all.

“I have to go,” Colin says, grabbing his shoes from the foot of the bed. “There’s an emergency at the hospital.” He doesn’t elaborate, but then again Colin never does as he seems to be the type to often clip his words. He runs a hand through Ezra’s hair, like Ezra’s a little kid, but doesn’t press a kiss to his temple even though Ezra angles his head. “We’ll talk later,” he says.

“Okay.” Ezra waits for the telltale thud of the front door closing before slumping down in bed and flinging an arm over his face.

They don’t talk about it at all.

*

Ezra has Thanksgiving weekend off. It’s a nightmare, the shifting, but he’s been consistently at the top of his game ever since the month has started so when he’d asked if he could go on leave, making up an excuse about needing to see his mom, he’s granted the weekend off in exchange for working extra hours the rest of the week. 

It’s going to be a nightmare when he comes back, practically suicide, but he feels like he needs at least two days to get his head together. 

He ends up actually going to Jersey, in the end, taking the bus and arriving a little before noon. His mom isn’t expecting him until dinner so she’s not at home when he arrives, but at her Bridge class across town. 

Ezra spends the next couple of hours walking around town, getting coffee from a nearby Starbucks, and hanging out at a local bookstore that used to be a hardware when he was growing up. When he gets a text from his mom, summoning him back, he walks the rest of the way there, in the cold, resolutely not thinking about what brought him home at all.

Ezra doesn’t call Colin until after dinner, too full from his mother’s cooking to feel anything but content. He falls asleep for an hour, two at most, after dessert. 

When he wakes, he’s lying on the sofa and it’s drizzling outside, the light from the street cutting columns of shadow across the carpet. He calls Colin from the upstairs bathroom, the window open to air out the smell of cigarette smoke. 

Ezra’s mom doesn’t know he smokes, even after all these years. She’d accepted that he dated boys, and didn’t mind at all that he moved out of state for college. But he didn’t think she’d take to the idea that he had such terrible vices, and would probably chalk it off to her being a terrible mother. 

Colin doesn’t pick up on the first two tries. The third time, it goes to voicemail and Ezra waits another few minutes before calling again, brushing his teeth with his free hand as he pads back to his bedroom.

They’d made plans for the weekend before they’d known Colin couldn’t take time off, just vague plans, really, that had Ezra looking up hotels in the tri-state area and checking restaurant reviews on Yelp. But then Colin had a big surgery scheduled, and then there was the argument, which Ezra tries very hard not to think about because he knows for a fact he’s going to beat himself up and obsess over it.

Colin picks up on the fourth ring. “Ezra,” he says. He sounds tired even though it’s only eight o’clock at night. Ezra can hear voices in the background, muffled, and imagines Colin in his office with the door slightly ajar. He’d only been in Colin’s office a couple of times, when he’d snuck in during his lunch break and made himself comfortable in his enormous leather chair, opening desk drawers and rifling through their contents as he waited for Colin to finish doing his rounds. 

The other time Colin had sat him down on the edge of that desk and kissed him while he was standing up, Ezra’s hands clutching the doctor’s white coat and tie, Colin’s broad hands framing his face. He has such soft hands, which seems almost at odds with his rough appearance, but not his personality, Ezra thinks, hands that make Ezra want Colin to keep touching him anywhere, everywhere.

Later, Ezra got on his knees and blew him, just because he knew he could get away with it, perched between Colin’s spread legs while Colin raked his fingers through Ezra’s hair to keep it from avalanching over his face. 

Afterward, he hadn’t been very pleased because they’d almost gotten caught and warned Ezra never to pull anything like that ever again, in his office, a reprimand that at the time felt like it was coming from a parent, embarrassing Ezra even further. So Ezra stopped coming to visit him in his office and instead waited for him in the smoking area, outside the hospital, where they stood in the cold, talking inanely about patients and what the cafeteria was serving that day, watching patients come and go through the lobby.

Ezra thinks about that now, and whether Colin is alone in his office or with someone he’s cautioning to be really quiet. _Barry_. He peers through the dusty blinds of his old bedroom and squints at the view outside. Someone was walking their dog at the end of the street. 

“How’re you,” Ezra asks blandly. 

Colin huffs out a small laugh. The laughter in the background recedes as he moves away from the source. “I’m great. Just exhausted. I was going to call you but —”

“Yeah,” Ezra finishes for him. “It’s fine. I got here this afternoon. We’re having family over for Thanksgiving dinner. You sure you don’t want to swing by?”

“To Jersey?” Colin asks, disbelief coloring his voice. “You know I can’t, Ezra.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Ezra sighs. “I was joking.” Partly anyway, he thinks. It’d be the greatest surprise of his life though: Colin showing up unannounced on his doorstep, handsome in his black peacoat, his face shining with earnestness like a brand new penny — his hair in disarray because he’d rushed there straight from the hospital, after his surgery, a bouquet of flowers clutched in his free hand, just barely making it in time for dinner. 

“Do you miss me?” Ezra asks him, moving to the bed where he shucks off his pants. 

“Ezra,” Colin laughs softly. “Of course I do. Do _you_ miss me?”

Ezra shrugs with one shoulder, until he remembers Colin can’t see him. He sighs loudly instead. “Are you alone right now?”

“Yes,” the doctor says, sounding wary. 

Ezra twists his body in bed and starts kneading his own thigh.“I’m horny,” he stage-whispers.He shuts his eyes in embarrassment, his entire face going bright red, but then goes redder still when he hears Colin sigh in his ear. 

“Ezra,” Colin says, and immediately Ezra knows what he means. He sits up straight, snapping his eyes open, feeling all at once childish and clumsy. 

“Okay,” Ezra says curtly. “Okay, okay.”

“No, Ezra, I didn’t mean —”

“I said it’s okay. _Jesus_ ,” Ezra snaps. “Can we just drop it? It’s dumb anyway. _God_. I’m so fucking dumb. Are you alone right now or what?”

“Why are you asking me that?”

“Never mind.”

“Ezra.”

“I said drop it, all right?”

“Are you sure you’re all right?”

“Yes, doctor, I’m sure.” 

“You sound upset.”

“I’m not,” Ezra lies. “It’s just a cold.”

“You were fine when you left this morning.”

“It’s the nature of the virus. One minute you think you’re fine, then the next —”

“Ezra,” Colin says. “ _Ezra._ ”

“What,” Ezra says.

“Would you like me to pick you up from the station on Monday? I’ll drive you home,” he promises.

Sometimes, Ezra wanted to punch Colin in the face. He’s kind, is the thing, even when Ezra’s being a total dick to him, or worse yet, acting like a spoiled little brat. Ezra hates that about him, that he almost never gets angry and uses his professional doctor voice when he needs to be in control of a situation.

“It’s fine, you don’t have to drive me home. I can take a cab,” Ezra tells him. He rubs two fingers across his forehead, massaging the telltale ache behind his eyelids, willing himself not to cry. “Anyway,” Ezra says quickly. “I have to go.” 

“Going to bed already?” Colin teases, but Ezra’s not in the mood, not right now. He hangs up without saying goodbye.

* 

Because here’s the thing: two weeks ago when Colin had flown to San Francisco for a conference, Ezra snuck into his house on the day he knew Colin would be returning. 

Colin kept a spare key under a loose floorboard on his patio and Ezra let himself inside and pulled all the necessary stops. 

There were still glasses in the sink from the wine they’d had the night Colin left for his conference so he washed those and put them away before getting started on dinner. He left the stuffed turkey baking in the oven while he showered and shaved and cut off the tags of his brand new leather jeans. 

“This thing is way too tight. I look like a ten dollar twink,” he’d said to Rob who was on the phone with him. He craned his neck over his shoulder and checked his reflection in the hallway mirror, smacking his own ass out of spite and hopping a few times to stretch out the material.

“Again, with the jokes,” Rob said. “Don’t sell yourself short, my friend. You’re worth a little more than that.”

“Twenty?”

“Maybe twenty five.”

He’d been pretty giddy about the thought of Colin coming back after a week away. They hadn’t been able to talk at all because of Ezra’s erratic hours, but there was always text, and it made Ezra miss him, terribly, the sound of his voice and his smell, which was a combination of toothpaste and the herbal ointment he sometimes rubbed on his back for the aches he’d get if he slouched too long or sat in a weird position while reading. 

Ezra had it in mind to surprise him, but privately had set it all up so they could also have sex. Three months in and Colin had yet to fuck him though he’d come close, a couple of times, turning Ezra onto his belly and rubbing his cock between the cheeks of his ass, planting him on his hands and feet on the bed to come across his back. 

Ezra thought now would be the perfect time. Colin, coming home after a long week away, Ezra waiting for him, in his best clothes, cologne in his pulse points behind his ears, his skin flushed from the hot water, already loose after he’d fingered himself up to three knuckles and came hard across the tile. 

He had all of it planned, down to giving Colin a massage if he was having trouble with his back, until the doorbell rang an hour too early and he found a woman standing there who turned out to be Colin’s ex-wife. 

“Hello,” she said, tilting her head to the side and looking him up and down. “Who are you?”

They had an argument, of course, but much much later. 

Ezra stewed for about an hour, and the left the turkey overcooked, the potatoes too soft, the asparagus burnt on the kitchen counter. He didn’t wear any shoes, walking around in his bare feet and clutching a mug of tea to his chest as he kept an eye on the driveway.

Ezra knew all about waiting. He watered the plant living on the floor of Colin’s kitchen, checked his e-mail on his phone, and then called Rob again though it went straight to voicemail. He took a short run, circling the block a few times, wearing an old sweatshirt from college and listening to music from his phone in full-blast.

By the time Colin got home, he’d already put away his new clothes, dressing instead in the pair of scrubs he’d arrived in, smelling again like the hospital. 

Colin’s ex-wife had already been long gone by then. She’d come by to pick up a few of her effects — the paintings in the hall had all been hers, gifts from Colin during their courtship, or else bought with her own money. She needed them back because renovation at her new home had already finished, and Colin had promised to return them once she finally got back on her feet after the divorce. 

She was a beautiful woman, reedy and blond, with a slight accent Ezra couldn’t place. She wore pearl earrings and cat-eyeglasses, her hair loose and long, falling mid-back. Ezra could somehow imagine her married to Colin and living in his house, making him coffee in the morning and rubbing his shoulders while he read the paper, tilting her head down to give him a warm kiss. 

Ezra told her he was house-hitting, the lie coming easily enough as he watched her unhook the frames in the living room, leaving pale shadows on the wall. He ended up helping her load the frames in the backseat of her car, and she thanked Ezra and gave him her business card, which declared her to be an art curator. 

“You’ve been very helpful,” she told him, shaking his hand. “I thought for sure you were another one of his — well, nevermind. You just look like one of his types.” 

The thought seemed to almost sadden her. But it was the other things she said that left him feeling unmoored, that he used like a weapon to throw in Colin’s face, in the end. 

*

It didn’t blow up until a week later when Colin showed up at his apartment, fresh from a run, with a bag of takeout he’d bought along the way. Colin often went straight to Ezra’s apartment after a run, to shower and change before he went to work because it was closer to the hospital if he took the subway. 

Also, lately, it was the only time they got to see each other as Ezra was put on a different rotation after an intern from Internal Medicine dropped out without notice. They were eating in the kitchen, Colin freshly showered, Ezra, barely out of his scrubs, when Ezra brought it up. 

The TV was on in the background, open to the news, and Colin almost didn’t hear him except he’d said it twice, glancing out the window where light was starting to filter through the dirty curtains.

“Your wife came over at the time, if you’re wondering,” he’d said, apropos of nothing, spooning fried rice into his mouth straight from the box. He’d lied to Colin at the time, claiming he didn’t know what happened to the paintings, much less who’d taken them when he’d gotten home from the airport. They were simply gone when he’d arrived, he told Colin, and Colin believed him because there really wasn’t any room for doubt. 

Colin looked at him for a long moment before putting down his chopsticks. In a movement so casual but was anything but, he pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose. 

“She said some things,” Ezra continued, not meeting his eyes. “About you. About this other guy at the hospital.”

“A baseless rumor,” Colin said, and then took a long sip of his coffee. He put it down with more force than necessary and it made a hard thunk on the table, “I told you before, the boy came onto me.”

Ezra flinched at the coldness of his voice. “I’m sorry I lied,” he said. 

“You believe her, don’t you?” _Over me_ , Colin didn’t need to say but the implication was there, everywhere across his face, in the tightness of his jaw. He looked disappointed, whether this was because he’d been found out or Ezra was trying to bait him, Ezra wasn’t sure, and frankly didn’t want to know. 

He wasn’t even sure why he was trying to bring it up, now, of all times, when everything was perfect again and they had settled back into their routine: of Colin showing up at his place and tipping him into bed, of the two of them eating on top of the covers afterwards, getting crumbs all over the blankets. 

They slept sometimes in the afternoon, half-hour naps that Ezra was first to wake up from, and he’d spend the next ten minutes just lying there next to Colin, tracing the grey whiskers of his beard with his fingertips, smoothing the pinch between his eyebrows. He’d never met anyone who napped as often as Colin did, after eating. 

The guys he dated in college were simply heavier, older versions of the guys he dated in high school in secret but Colin was the first one to pay for everything, the first to take him out to nice restaurants and hold his hand under the table, the first to buy him so many flowers that they filled every glass he kept on the kitchen cupboard, even his mugs. 

He was the first one Ezra ever thought about letting fuck him, because he was so kind and so handsome, and when he pressed Ezra against the fridge in his kitchen, and called him sweetheart, when he kissed him, running his beard across his face to make him laugh, Ezra’s throat sometimes filled up like a balloon.

In spite of all that, Ezra got anxious, and found things to worry about. This had always been the case with him. When things were good, he found ways to destroy them, though it wasn’t always his fault, not all the time. It was always somehow easier to believe the bad over the good, because how could he not? He felt things too deeply and let things build up inside him until he had no room left for anything else. 

For days he’d agonized over what Colin’s wife had told him, losing sleep in the process, wondering if he was just going to be another footnote, a notch on the doctor’s bedpost. Relegated to: _just an intern._

Maybe, he thought, there was a reason Colin was so popular. Maybe the rumors were true. Maybe it’s why some of the doctors hated him. 

Ezra had hoped for the longest time that he’d be an isolated case, that the doctor had singled him out from the crowd because he saw something special about him that made him stand out. 

The reality was, he was plain and boring, a mediocre doctor. He happened to be easy, earnest at the slightest show of affection, eager to please. 

When Colin left for work later in the day, Ezra didn’t kiss him goodbye, or stand outside on the stoop, grabbing hold of the doctor’s coat and straightening his tie.

*

Rob and Lilah show up for Thanksgiving dinner to show support. They both have family in California and Washington, but are to broke to visit them for the holiday so Ezra invites them over for dinner after they tell him their gig had been cancelled. It reminds him of when his dad had still been alive and family filled the rest of the house during important holidays, even the non-Jewish ones because they were never really good Jews. 

Rob and Lilah are white knights. 

They hug Ezra at the door as if they somehow know how off-kilter he’s feeling before the three of them migrate up to his room while the adults cook and catch up in the kitchen. 

Even at twenty-six, Ezra can’t help but think of his mom and his aunts as the adults. He feels like he hasn’t earned his stripes yet, constantly adrift in the myriad bad decisions he keeps making everyday. He wonders how some people do it.

Rob makes fun of his high school CD collection and the mix tapes he has lined up on the shelf, everything from the Beatles to Elvis Costello. 

They watch _Casablanca_ on the laptop Lilah always brings along with her, the subtitles on a beat too early, huddled shoulder to shoulder on their stomachs in Ezra’s tiny rickety bed, like little children. 

Rob falls asleep about halfway into the movie, and after reciting most of the lines under her breath, Lilah suddenly turns to Ezra and touches his shoulder, making him look down at her hand. “You like him, don’t you.” 

“Who?” Ezra asks, blinking. “Humphrey Bogart?”

“No, _dumbass_ , the doctor. Your date that one time. Connor?”

“Colin,” Ezra corrects her.

She smiles, gently. This is why she’s one of his best friends. “Did you guys fight?”

“Hardly,” Ezra says. “Fighting is for people who actually talk about things. We don’t talk. At all. About anything that matters.” 

Now, this isn’t strictly true. Colin had told him, briefly, about his childhood in Ireland, about boarding school and then Oxford and accepting a fellowship in the States. Ezra told him about his dad, and the funeral, when Colin had complimented him on the black suit he wore to almost all their dates in expensive restaurants. 

“You really like this guy, huh,” Lilah says, watching him carefully. She rests her head on his shoulder, patting him on the cheek.

Ezra snorts, letting her hand drop from his face. “Does it matter?”

She shrugs one shoulder, turning her attention back to the screen. “Of course it does, Ezra.”

“I’m being stupid, anyway.”

“You aren’t. You just really like him.” 

Ezra lets that thought sink for a moment. He stares off into space, at the floral wallpaper his mother had never gotten rid of even after he’d moved out and she’d said she was going to have his room repainted. Everything was as he had left it: the boxes of accolades accumulating dust in the corner, a poster of Buzz Aldrin, The Rolling Stones, and Deep Space peeling side by side above his headboard. 

For some reason, he thinks back to before he and the doctor started dating when he would watch Colin from time to time and often feel a slice of jealousy down his spine whenever Colin so much as smiled at someone else. 

It was stupid, and petty, and irrational as fuck; Colin hardly knew him and they weren’t even on speaking terms — there was no point getting jealous. Ezra begrudgingly acknowledges that he’s in a similar predicament now, except that the jealousy has been tamped down and replaced by something else. Something much worse and ugly, that’s been sitting and growing inside his chest, and festering for days.

“Cheer up,” Lilah says, before telling him to catch. He lifts his hands up by instinct and almost drops what she lobs at him on the floor: a mix tape he made back in 2003 when he’d been eleven and an idiot. _The Breakup Mix, vol. 1._ She laughs at the expression on his face. 

“Ezra,” she says, hugging him loosely, threading their fingers together and squeezing his hand. “It’s okay to be stupid sometimes. You’re not the first one to lose it over a dumb guy.”

*

He manages not to call Colin until after Thanksgiving dinner, stepping out to the patio after doing his fare share of after-dinner chores. His mom had left a checkered blanket in the wicker chair, and there’s a mug of mostly empty tea on the table, already cold. When his dad had been alive, his parents used to spend their afternoons on the patio, playing checkers and making each other laugh. 

Nowadays, his mom has Bridge class and attends a pottery workshop every other weekend to eat up her free time. Ezra feels guilty about moving but he knows deep down he would have hated living the rest of his life in Jersey. 

Surprisingly, Colin picks up on the first ring. “I was just about to call you,” he says. “Are you all right?”

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

Colin doesn’t respond. “Are you sure you don’t want me to pick you up tomorrow? I can buy you breakfast on the way. We can eat at your apartment.”

“I’ll get home and sleep,” Ezra tells him. “I won’t be all that entertaining to you.”

“You don’t have to be entertaining, Ezra,” Colin says, coughing out a laugh. “You do know that, right?”

How else can Ezra respond to that? He sits in the wicker chair and throws the blanket over his knees and watches the moon peek through the low-hanging leaves of the cherry tree in their yard. “Happy Thanksgiving, Doctor,” he says. He imagines the doctor’s face softening as he undoes his tie and unbuttons his shirt before pouring himself a nightcap in the kitchen, whiskey or gin. 

“You too. Happy Thanksgiving,” the doctor says.

*

It’s almost funny how Ezra runs into Barry. 

He realises he’s met him before on the welcome orientation. They hadn’t really crossed paths all that often because Ezra tends to live too much inside his head and not give a shit about anyone outside of Internal Medicine. 

Barry’s wheeling a patient in a gurney and they share a lift together when Ezra is on his way to rounds, nervously clicking his pen over and over because the chief of medicine is going to be paying them a visit. 

Barry looks over at him and throws him a goofy smile. “Miller, right?” he says, and Ezra is instantly able to identify that accent. He’s Irish too, just like Colin, with an unruly mop of dark hair and eyes that squint into tiny slits when he smiles. 

“Yeah,” Ezra says, awkwardly thrusting out hand, over the patient. 

Barry laughs and takes it. “Barry,” he says, and for a second Ezra feels like something is compressing his chest. He fights to get air. 

“Doctor Farrell’s protege?” he manages to joke.

Barry reddens. “Nah, far from it, mate. Though I’d like to be, I mean, the guy is great. He tells me about you. Internal Medicine?”

Ezra nods. “Yeah. He’s nice to all his patients,” he agrees amiably. “And us lowly interns.”

Barry smiles but doesn’t say anything. He’s so polite, so likeable, that Ezra almost feels sick to his stomach. 

The doors open, and Barry nods at him in acknowledgement, wheeling out his patient, waving at Ezra over his shoulder. “I’ll see you later, Miller.”

“Yeah, sure, see you,” Ezra calls after him. 

The doors close after Barry and Ezra realises too late that he should have gotten off on the same floor.

*

Ezra doesn’t befriend him, because he knows for fact he has less than honorable intentions, but he does make it a point to nod at Barry when he comes across him in the hallway. It’s like now that he’s put a face to the name, Ezra starts seeing him everywhere, doing rounds with the other residents, or in the cafeteria by the vending machine. 

Sometimes he’s in the break-room, playing cards with the rest of the interns, or standing outside in the smoking area while not smoking himself, hands inside his pockets, chatting up other doctors. 

Ezra bumps into Barry again a few days later while on lunch break, on his way to meet Colin.

Colin, strolling towards them from the lobby, almost does a double take. He looks between them, a tight smile frozen on his face, a part of Ezra relishing the discomfort creasing his features. 

“Mr Keoghan, Mr Miller,” Colin says, nodding at the both of them.

“ _Doctor._ ” Ezra smiles slowly.

They watch him walk away and cross the street to the deli. 

“He’s hot, isn’t he?” Ezra says after a moment, lighting his cigarette in a cupped palm. 

“What?” Barry splutters. “Who? The doctor?”

“Yeah, the doctor. Who else?” Ezra rolls his eyes. 

Barry looks at him quizzically, a comical smile on his face like he isn’t sure what Ezra’s talking about. 

Still, Ezra presses, because that’s what he’s good at, pushing people’s buttons, seeing what makes them tick. He likes to rock the boat, even if nothing good ever came out of it, even if he got hurt in the end, which he almost always did. 

“I’d let him fuck me,” Ezra says, just to get Barry’s attention. It feels juvenile to say it, especially out loud like that, standing next to someone he hardly knows, but feels oddly threatened by though he doesn’t understand why. 

It makes him sound like a kid, desperate to impress by saying the most outrageous thing. 

When Barry looks at him in shock, and then confusion slowly morphing into concern, Ezra takes a deep drag of his cigarette, and hedges, “Would you?”

*

The next time Colin comes to his apartment, several days since the last time, he’s in gym clothes. 

The weather has started to turn and it’s become too cold out to run in the mornings so Colin signs up for a gym membership. He lets himself in when Ezra opens the door, swooping down to give Ezra a kiss, resting his hands on Ezra’s hips and squeezing him a little. 

While he’s in the shower, Ezra goes back to his room to sleep, waking only when he feels Colin moving behind him and dropping a kiss to his exposed shoulder. He seems to be in the mood to have sex, running his fingers along the sides of Ezra’s ribs, under his shirt, kissing Ezra behind the ear where he knows Ezra is weakest. 

Ezra sighs and lets himself be held. It’s been a while since Colin has touched him like this, often too tired to do anything but sleep. 

Colin tugs Ezra’s shirt over his head, kisses the side of his face. He drags Ezra’s boxers over his legs one-handed, before smoothing his hand down his flank, coasting his fingers up his sides again before looking him directly in the face. 

“Okay?” he says.

“Okay,” Ezra echoes, leaning into Colin’s touch, his breath coming out in short shudders. 

And then there it is: all of him revealed, every inch, and dip and scar and freckle. 

They’ve had sex before, blowjobs and handjobs, Colin spooning him and rubbing himself off in the cleft of Ezra’s ass, but they’d been half-clothed most of the time, never completely undressed. It’s different now. Light from the street outside is throwing throw glossy flashes across Colin’s face, making the lines there more pronounced, intensifying the depth of his gaze. 

Ezra leans back on his palms, and watches as Colin’s lips part in arousal. 

“Now it’s your turn,” he says. His eyes grow wide with every article of clothing that hits the floor: first the college t-shirt, too small in the shoulders, with the sleeves cut off, then the sweatpants, before finally Colin’s underwear, a plain pair of navy boxer briefs. He sucks in his gut when he leans over but Ezra touches his side and tells him to stop, please stop doing that. 

Not surprisingly, Colin’s cock is already half-hard, jutting out in a luscious curve towards his belly, the tip pearly wet. Ezra’s has had that cock inside his mouth before, between his hands, on his skin, but he’s never had it inside him where he wants it the most. 

“Fuck me,” he says, meeting Colin’s gaze. He anchors his hands on Colin’s shoulders, whispering it into his ear. “I need it. Been thinking about having your cock in me for the longest time and if you don’t fuck me right now I think I’m going to go crazy.”

“But I don’t have any condoms with me,” Colin says.

“It doesn’t matter to me,” Ezra tells him. He flushes red all the way to his toes even as he says it. “I’ll let you come,” he starts. He presses his lips to Colin’s ear: “Inside me.” 

*

Colin smells like shampoo. His hair is damp between Ezra’s fingers when Ezra guides him down to his lap. His beard rasps the slivers of hair on Ezra’s legs when Colin kisses him from knee to calf, and then back, his fingers following in their wake, his nose running a ticklish path up Ezra’s thighs. Then he wraps his hands around Ezra’s ankles, before spreading them apart, and Ezra buckles under the weight of his gaze, and the want burning up like a fever inside his bones. 

Colin runs his face across the inside of his thighs, tickling him with his beard deliberately, huffing out a laugh when Ezra grabs him by the shoulders and tells him to quit it. 

“It tickles,” he complains, but without any real heat in it.

“I know,” Colin tells him. He does it again, but this time Ezra says nothing about it, and lets himself come undone, lurching his hips after Colin takes him into his mouth, whimpering when Colin presses deep into the knuckle, two fingers, and then three, wet with lube. 

“You all right?” Colin asks, brows knit in concern when Ezra flings an arm over his face, embarrassed by his own behavior, the breathy sounds he’s been making, high pitched and whiny. 

Ezra nods hastily and yelps when he feels the slick point of Colin’s tongue touching the hang of his balls, then his taint, and then without any warning at all, Colin starts to spread him with the pads of his two thumbs, holding him open, trembling and dilating, trembling and dilating.

“Have you ever been —”

Ezra shakes his head. He leans up on his elbows, glancing down at Colin whose head is between Ezra’s spread legs and whose shoulders seem wide from this angle. 

Colin seems to come to a decision because he nods just the once before pressing a kiss to the inside of Ezra’s thigh. Then he blows a wad of spit into Ezra’s hole, and Ezra loses it, spitting precome all over his belly and barely resisting the urge to ride his ass over Colin’s lecherous mouth. 

He crumples, like a deck of cards as Colin eats him out like champ, humming in his throat, every deep-voiced groan reverberating inside his chest, like this is something he could be doing all day. Ezra’s thighs ache a little from being spread so wide, his chest starting to sweat as Colin works his mouth all over him. He feels Colin’s fingertip drag across his hole, testing the give, before he presses two fingers and starts pumping them in and out, watching Ezra’s face for signs of pain, his free hand curled on Ezra’s knee, squeezing him in pulses. 

Ezra feels loose and relaxed, riding the high of his impending orgasm, and tugs Colin forward by the neck, on top of him. 

“Now,” he breathes. “I’m ready.”

The first thrust is painful, like a fist is trying to squeeze its way through him, bullying past any resistance. He whimpers softly in pain, making a puppyish noise, but tries to hide his face in Colin’s neck to stop his flinching. He’s waited a long time for this moment to come. 

Now that it’s happening, he’s going to see it all the way through, no matter the outcome. 

“Does it hurt?”

“No,” Ezra squeaks, even though it hurts like hell. He wants to scream. He hopes nothing tears but he’s so sore already even though Colin is only halfway inside him, hot and hard and, it feels, thicker than his wrist. 

Ezra recites all the bones of the body and gets to fibula before he can start to relax. 

Ezra sobs when Colin pulls back and then pushes back in, his thighs trembling as tears leak from the corners of his eyes without him realising it.

“You need to start being honest with me,” Colin tells him, softly, cupping his face with both hands. “Hey,” he says, “I’m going to pull out—”

Ezra grabs his forearm. He’s locked in Colin’s embrace, his knees bracketing Colin’s sides, his legs spread open. The flat of his feet touch Colin’s back. He doesn’t want Colin to move for all the wrong reasons. “Don’t.” He starts trembling from the legs up. “I’ll be all right. Just — just give me a few minutes.”

Colin waits. He kisses Ezra to get him to soften. He’s always been a great kisser, alternating pressure, knowing when use tongue and when to pull away. He kisses Ezra slowly, wrapping his hand in his hair until Ezra’s head falls back on the pillow and he shudders. 

Colin starts to move again at his prompting, short abortive thrusts of his hips to work Ezra up into a frenzy, and then suddenly it doesn’t hurt anymore so much as feel like a pleasant ache needing to be rubbed over and over. 

Ezra’s toes curl in pleasure when Colin rolls his hips and surges forward, keeping himself buried to the root long enough that Ezra starts to pant. He does this twice, letting Ezra ride each wave, pressing his hands flat under Ezra’s knees to fold him in two, stirring him up with his dick. 

“Do you want to ride me?” Colin asks, still thinking about Ezra’s comfort even at this point. “Get on top?”

“No, no,” Ezra babbles. “I like it like this. Fuck me like this.”

“Yeah?” And Colin punctuates that statement with another deep thrust, making the ache inside Ezra loosen, his hole clench around Colin’s dick like a fist. His own cock pulses weakly between them, oversensitive from the friction between their bellies. He knows he’ll come soon, and Colin hasn’t even touched his cock. 

He prefers it this way, Ezra thinks. Coming without touching. Letting Colin pound him deep into the mattress so hard the bed is starting to sway and hit the wall. 

“Toys,” Colin breathes against Ezra’s ear, between every thrust. “We’ll get you toys to loosen you up, get you used to it. So it won’t hurt next time I fuck you.”

“ _Yes_ ,” Ezra hisses, starting to undulate his hips. He tightens around Colin like a vice, wanting to come, wanting to be filled. “Yes, yes please.”

“You like that darling?” Colin grunts, fucking him harder, faster.“You like taking that big fucking cock?”

“I love taking that big _fucking_ cock,” Ezra hisses viciously. He nods several times, cock, ruddy and wet, bobbing with every heave of Colin’s body above him. “Fat fucking cock full of come for me.”

“Yeah?” And Colin almost laughs, slipping them both out of the fantasy, but he manages to reassert himself by biting Ezra on the shoulder, gently, and pushing back in, inch by slow inch until he’s fully sheathed once more and Ezra can hardly breathe. “You want that come, baby? Filling you up?”

“ _Fill me up_ ,” Ezra begs, hysterical, gripping Colin by the shoulders and refusing to let go. “Fill me up, doctor. _Please_. Want your come. Want it now.”

“Here it comes, baby, here it comes…” And then there’s white noise, and Ezra almost blanks out, and then Colin is coming inside him, the silky rush of his hot come making Ezra feel both dirty and sexy. He doesn’t orgasm until much later — when Colin pulls out and dips two fingers behind his balls, working his other hand over Ezra’s cock. 

He’s gone, then, in a heartbeat, spurting all over Colin’s hand, shivering like he’s uncontrollably cold. He’d have gotten embarrassed if he didn’t already have Colin’s come leaking out of him in weak pulses, coating the covers. 

If Colin hadn’t leaned up and kissed him, and told him he was perfect. If he hadn’t smoothed a hand over Ezra’s hip, then kissed him again on top of the head, smiling that stupid little smile that made Ezra tussle for air. 

*

Ezra wakes twenty minutes later to Colin reading the news on his iPad and drinkingcoffee from a thermos. He’s half dressed for work, pleated pants and a white undershirt, his tie and dress shirt draped across the reading chair by the window. 

It almost feels like nothing had happened at all, and if it weren’t for the soreness in his ass, Ezra would have believed it had all been a dream, a fantasy concocted by his bored mind. 

He’s lying on his stomach, too lazy to move. 

It’s already morning, judging by the light outside, and the rush of traffic he can already hear from the street. Sometimes, Ezra hates living in the city because there’s always enough noise to fill up an entire room.

He looks at Colin, feeling suddenly shy. “Hi,” he says.

“Hello, Ezra.” Colin doesn’t let his gaze stray from his iPad but he does reach out to ruffle the top of Ezra’s hair absently, making a mess of his hair. 

It must’ve been the contentment, or the post-sex high, because Ezra feels suddenly guilty for doubting Colin in the last few weeks, for starting arguments he didn’t have the heart to finish, for being a general little shit. He says so just as much and confesses to having spoken to Barry, telling him about wanting Colin to fuck him, and how he’d almost confessed everything about them, in all its messy glory, just to provoke a reaction and stake his claim. 

In hindsight, it may have been a little crazy. 

Colin must think so too because his hand stills in Ezra’s hair. “I can’t believe we’re still talking about this,” he says, after a moment.

“What do you mean?” Ezra says. He sits up, and almost immediately regrets it. Pain lances through him from his tailbone — not sharp enough to debilitate, but it takes him by surprise nonetheless. 

Colin sighs. “Now, don’t be upset.”

“I’m not upset,” Ezra tells him. “You wanted honesty, and this is me, being honest.”

Colin looks at him skeptically. “He’s like the son I never had, if you want to know the truth.”

“Whereas I’m just some intern you like to fuck around with?”

“Ezra.” Colin reaches out for his hands but Ezra pulls them out of the way. “I thought we’d been over this.”

“When? We hardly talk about anything important. I barely even know you and I let you fuck me.”

“Yes, well That’s on you,” Colin says. His lips thin, and he looks like he’s trying his best not to lose his patience. 

Ezra’s never seen him angry before. Partly because he’s never done anything to coax it out of him, and partly because it takes a lot to make Colin angry. He’s the complete opposite of Ezra who can lose it at the drop of a hat, wound up by the littlest most insignificant thing. 

“I think you should leave,” Ezra says, when the silence that presses all around them starts to become unbearable.

Colin grabs his shoes, his tie and dress shirt, his glasses from the nightstand though doesn’t put them. “I think so too,” he says and is halfway down the hall before Ezra gets over himself and scrambles off the bed to catch up to him.

“Colin,” he calls. “ _Wait_.” But Colin’s already left. 

*

“Ezra,” the doctor says as the line clicks on.

Ezra stares at his phone for a whole second before pressing it to his ear. “ _Doctor_.”

“Don’t do that,” Colin says. 

“Don’t do what?” Ezra asks. “Address you by your title?”

“Ezra.” The doctor sighs, sounding tired. “Can we talk?” His voice is almost scratchy, drowned by the wash of noise around him, like he’s standing in a busy street. 

Ezra can hear the telltale honking of cars and foot traffic, snatches of conversation here and there. “Can I come up? Or — I don’t really have to do that. We can just talk on the phone.”

Ezra thinks about it, then chews on his bottom lip. Yesterday, Colin had left without any word. Yesterday, he hadn’t called him at all, or met him for lunch like he usually did, at the deli across the hospital. Ezra glances at the clock above the sink. It’s late, almost midnight, and Colin’s probably waiting for him to buzz him so he can come up, standing outside in his black pea coat and gloves — coming here straight after his shift at the hospital. 

Whatever he’s about to say must be important, but then again Ezra hates confrontation, fights of any kind. Even in movies, little arguments made him uncomfortable. And this — this feels like the end, and he’s not even sure what that means. 

“I’m really busy,” Ezra says. “Papers.”

“Ezra.”

“Some other time,” Ezra promises. “Tomorrow, maybe. I’ll call you.”

“Ezra.”

Ezra hangs up, in spite of himself.

*

Ezra manages to spend the week avoiding Colin. He doesn’t know why he does it, but Colin hasn’t been exactly texting him or asking him over, so Ezra figures it’s his quiet way of asking for space. 

It works well enough for him because work keeps him busy. He hangs out with John and the rest of his pals from Internal Medicine, buys them drinks like any sane twenty something should be doing when it’s his turn at the bar. At the end of the week, while he’s folding laundry in the only laundromat in Brooklyn open until 4 in the morning, he tries not to think about how good he had it with Colin.

Instead, he stares off into space, watching snow start to fall on the ground like tinsel. 

Ezra hauls a bagful of clean laundry from the dryer before hoisting it over his shoulder. Then he vows to be detached from it all.

*

Christmas has never been Ezra’s favourite holiday. Even as a non-practicing Jew, he hated all that the holiday purported to be. Mostly he hated kids running around screaming, as if Ezra didn’t get enough of that already in the pediatric ward, the malls filling up with people and the bottleneck traffic choking up the streets. 

The food wasn’t all that bad though; he’s always had a sweet tooth, but it’s stupid traditions like hanging mistletoe from the doorway and Secret Santa where Ezra draws the line. 

In the name of team spirit, he joins Secret Santa anyway, picking Barry’s name — of all people — out of the striped sock Lizzie is toting around. 

The break room is awash in decorations: a sickly looking tree sits in the counter, drooping to the side, and a Christmas wreathe makes a sudden appearance at the door. Someone stars leaving a plate of misshapen gingerbread cookies at the table, and the whole hospital is bit by sickening holiday cheer. 

It’s been nine days since Ezra’s last spoken to Colin — not that he’s keeping count — and vaguely, he wonders if it’ll drag over to Christmas. 

As if the universe is conspiring against him, Ezra bumps into Colin in the lift, just as he’s on his way to do rounds. Colin is alone, staring at something on his phone, when Ezra steps inside the elevator and punches the button for his floor. 

Colin looks at him in surprise, then away, and Ezra says nothing to him, not even hello. 

A part of him is mentally kicking himself for being so stubborn, but then again that’s always been his greatest flaw: refusing to budge. He gets off on the twenty-third floor, and is halfway down the hall when he hears Colin calling out to him.

“Ezra,” says the doctor. Ezra feels all at once triumphant and smug until he sees that Colin is holding something in the outstretched hand between them. Then his stomach plummets. 

“You dropped your ID,” Colin tells him.

“Oh,” Ezra says, faintly. He clips his ID back clumsily, feeling suddenly embarrassed, his hands shaking. “Thanks.”

Colin smiles at him, before turning to leave, and Ezra has to stop himself more than once from following after him.

*

Too much pining did no one any good so instead of feeling sorry for himself, Lilah suggested he get off his ass and show up at a their next gig. 

They’re playing at a trendy bar alongside the New York Public Library, the venue full of people by the time Ezra shows up after his shift,college kids trickling in from Columbia and a slew of guys in hangdog faces needing a cold, hard drink after a long day at work. 

Ezra has a couple of beers in him before he starts to really unwind. He lets his eyes flit over the festive decorations, the snowflakes outlining the chalkboard menu above the bar. 

The seating capacity leaves much to be desired — Ezra’s practically standing shoulder to shoulder with the guy next to him. Recognition doesn’t dawn until later,on his third beer, and the guy turns his head and looks over at him, surprised to see him. “Barry?”

Barry tilts his head before clapping him on the back. “Hey, hey, how are you? What a coincidence. You here alone?”

“Yeah,” Ezra says. He jerks his head in the direction of the stage where Lilah and Rob and athird other guy Ezra doesn’t recognize are setting up their gear, tuning their guitars and amp, adjusting the mic stand.

“I’m kind of with the band.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Used to play with them back in college.”

“I didn’t know you could play an instrument. Drums?”

“I tried to make myself as flexible as possible,” Ezra says. “Drums, keyboard. Bass. I sing sometimes too. I also play the accordion,” he adds. Ezra blinks at himself. He must be drunk, forgetting just how much he hates Barry. He’s normally not this chatty. 

Barry just laughs at him, shaking his head as he takes a long pull of his beer. 

“You with anyone?” Ezra asks. 

Barry shakes his head. “Not really. I kind of like drinking alone. I come here often because its closest thing to a pub I’ve ever been in in New York and it’s also the only place that serves authentic fish and chips.”

“I should try that,” Ezra says. “Fish and Chips.” 

Barry shrugs one shoulder, just as the band starts to introduce themselves, following the tried and tested schtick of opening with a medley. 

_Sons_ constantly rotates between original songs and acoustic covers of popular 80’s hits from _Say Say Say_ by Paul McCartney to The Police’s _Every Breath You Take_ , which Ezra feels is oddly timely. He almost chokes on air at the _my poor heart aches_ part, refusing to look anywhere but the stage as he starts fiddling with his phone. 

Rob calls Ezra to do a song with them and Ezra downs his drink in one breath before staggering to the stage, swaying as he grabs the mic from Lilah, already a little bit drunk. He’s missed this, being on stage, baring his heart out to an audience who didn’t know better, college kids too broke to see any good shows but were hoping for a good time. He’d been one of them too, not long ago, young and sprightly and not dating older men who perplexed as much as they intrigued him.

“This is for my new friend Barry,” Ezra says, crowding the mic, blinking at the echoing whine of feedback. As the familiar beat of Toto’s _Africa_ starts up, Ezra taps his foot in earnest and closes his eyes. “I hear the drums echoing tonight…”

Later, Barry pats his back as he throws up on the sidewalk, crouched next to a fire hydrant. He winces when another wave of nausea hits him and he swallows down his own vomit. 

“You’re a good friend, Larry,” Ezra says to him, sincerely.

“It’s Barry,” Barry sighs. “Get it right at least.”

Ezra throws up on his brand new Adidas. 

*

Eventually, because he has no self-respect whatsoever, Ezra caves and comes crawling back to ask for forgiveness. 

Rob says he’s being dumb, waiting around for Colin, but Lilah seems to be convinced he’s the love of Ezra’s life so she tells Ezra to get a move on and quit being such a drama queen. “You want to get back together? Then stop moping and do something. Nothing you want to happen is gonna happen if you’re just going to sit around and wait. And stop drinking, it’s unbecoming of a doctor.” She pries the bottle out of his hands and points him in the direction of the shower. “Go, go, go.”

Ezra has the perfect alibi: _Sons_ is playing another show at a shitty dive bar, and he plans on inviting Colin. It’ll just be for drinks, and then they’ll talk and make up, work things through. He has it all memorized in his head, the perfect apology, and accosts Colin in the lobby just as he’s on his way home.

“Hi,” Ezra says. He feels out of breath — probably because he sprinted halfway across the hospital as soon as he’d seen Colin leaving his office. “Going somewhere?”

Colin is dressed impeccably, a navy tie and dress shirt, and his expensive black pea coat with the shiny silver buttons, the soft lush pockets Ezra had once slipped his hands inside when Colin kissed him at his stoop. 

“Yes, the Opera,” Colin says, clipping his words. “Did you want to say something?”

“I — _Sons_ is playing at —”

“Sorry! I found my car keys!” 

Ezra takes a step back as one of the residents swoops into view — Dr Greenwald from Pediatrics, bright red hair, bright red lipstick. A little on the chubby side but with full round breasts and a pretty enough face. She brandishes her car keys, twirling them from one finger. 

“Ready?”

Colin gives him an inscrutable look before nodding, and Ezra tries not to die on the spot, of humiliation and shame, but most of all a broken heart. 

“I’ll see you around, Mr Miller,” he says.

“Sure.”

This time, Ezra doesn’t watch him walk away, his heart beating frantically in his ribs as he races down the nearest bathroom to retch.

*

By his estimate, it’s been three weeks, nearly a month, of radio silence. Colin is the worst, but then Ezra should have expected this early on. He tells himself he doesn’t give a shit and goes about his day, doing rounds, working long hours, staying at the hospital to revise his papers, and not once reading old messages Colin’s sent him before on his phone. 

It was fun while it lasted. And it was great. And this — this is the afterward.

*

Secret Santa sucks. Lizzie organizes a meet up in the break room, rounding everyone up from General Surgery to Internal Medicine. Even people from GP are there, munching on sugar cookies and trying to figure out whose Secret Santa is whose. 

When it’s time to exchange presents, Ezra claps Barry on the back and hands him a paper bag stuffed with red tissue paper. It’s only a pair of Pac-Man socks and a $25 gift card to Barnes & Noble, but Barry grins and looks absolutely thrilled, like the sun shines out of his ass.

Ezra would have gotten him something better but he’s a lousy human being and an even lousier gift-giver, buying the wrong things, and easily swayed by Buy One Get One Free scams. He promises to take Barry out for drinks afterwards as recompense, and that’s what he ends up doing, though he’s mostly doing it for himself, truth be told, to keep himself from falling apart at the end of a very long work week. 

The two of them brave the cold and walk to the nearest bar still open at this strange hour, buying pints and taking turns at the dart board before Ezra collapses face-first on the table, his shoulders shaking in laughter, then sobs. He doesn’t know why he’s crying, and neither, apparently, does Barry who awkwardly pats him on the shoulder and tells him everything’s gonna be all right. 

If Ezra had been smart instead of thinking with his dick all the time, he’d have dated Barry instead, closer to his own age, and almost boring to a fault. He feels bad for thinking the last part and apologises to Barry who laughs open-mouthed and launches a peanut into his mouth.

“You’re very funny, Miller,” he says. “I’ve always thought so.” 

“I hated you, you know,” Ezra tells him, pressing his face to the scuffed up surface of the table, feeling its sticky residue grease his cheek. _Jesus_. What had his life come to? “I thought you were stealing my boyfriend.”

“I’m not stealing anyone’s boyfriend,” Barry says, wiping Ezra’s cheek with a paper napkin when he starts to drool. “I don’t think. For one, I’m straight. And secondly, I’ve got a girlfriend in NYU.”

“Right,” Ezra says, feeling dumb. He sits up but that turns out to be a bad idea because he starts swaying so he puts his head back down again and closes his eyes. He misses Colin. He misses how good he made him feel. 

He doesn’t want to cry, because that would be stupid, but he sniffs a couple of times and rubs violently at his face when his eyes start to tear up after _Last Christmas_ comes on on the Jukebox.

Barry is quiet for a long time. “You should take care of yourself, Miller,” he says, out of nowhere, his voice soft. “Anyway, thanks for the socks and gift card. I’m sorry I didn’t get you anything.” 

Ezra squints an eye up at him and finds Barry smiling at him ruefully, dimples in his cheeks. 

“Merry Christmas,” Barry says, then hastens to correct himself. “Do you even celebrate Christmas? _Shalom._ ”

Ezra laughs and flicks a peanut shell at him. 

Barry stands and lugs Ezra all the way to the door. He waves at the barman, before paying their tab and calling Ezra a cab.

*

Ezra wakes up with the worst hangover of his life. He still has a shift at the hospital so after chugging half an energy drink which he cuts with two vicodin, he takes the train to the hospital and works a total of two hours doing rounds and checking up on his patients before his attending sends him home. 

He buys a handle of whiskey from a bodega, but then forgets it on the train after falling asleep and missing his stop. He doesn’t realise he’s coming down with the flu until his nose starts running in the cold, and he has to wipe at his face every five minutes with the sleeve of his shirt as he takes the three flights of stairs to his apartment. He throws himself face-first on top of the covers as soon as he arrives, kicking off his shoes and bundling himself up in blankets. 

It’s Christmas Eve, and his neighbor is playing loud, cheerful, holiday music which bleeds through their shared wall and makes half of Ezra’s bedroom shake. 

Ezra groans and flings a pillow over his face, and that’s how he falls asleep. 

*

He wakes because his phone is buzzing on the nightstand. He ignores it, in favor of sleeping, but then it buzzes incessantly for the next ten minutes so he flings it across the wall. It hits the carpet, and he passes out again the minute his eyes close.

The second time he’s jarred from sleep, it’s because someone’s at the door. His phone is still on the floor, vibrating softly, but Ezra doesn’t pick it up and instead crawls across the bed to flick the bedside lamp on. He blinks as light floods the room, stinging his eyes, and stumblesto the front door to unhook the chain and peer through the crack.

“It’s you,” Ezra says, blinking as Colin starts to fill his vision. He almost doesn’t believe it because Colin looks so different, after having shaved his entire beard and worn his hair without the side part. He’s wearing his black pea coat, the shoulders dusted with a fine layer of snow.

“Hello Ezra,” he says.

Ezra unhooks the chain completely, letting the door fall open. “You shaved your beard,” he says, sounding accusing. “You look…why did you shave your beard?”

“I spent most of the year growing it,” Colin tells him. “I frankly don’t know why I shaved it all off this morning.” He looks discomfited for a moment, then says, “May I come in?”

Ezra swallows. He wants to say no. He’s about to say no until Colin touches his elbow and he weakens, stepping out of the way to let him inside. He shuts the door behind him, then heads straight for the cupboard, grabbing an enormous bag of Ritz crackers which he brings with him to the sofa and holds protectively in his lap. 

“You weren’t at work today.”

“I think I have the flu,” Ezra sniffs. He pretends to cough a few times until it turns into a series of legitimate hacking. Colin has to rub his shoulders to get him to calm and Ezra tries his best not to lean into his touch, give him what he wants. He almost lists into Colin but stops himself just in time, gritting his teeth and keeping himself seated in a corner of the couch, the very opposite side of where Colin is casually reclined, body facing him, his fingers steepled in his lap.

“Flu on Christmas Eve? How awful,” Colin says.

Ezra shrugs. He eats his crackers calmly, watching Colin wring his hands when he doesn’t respond. He looks younger without the beard, uncertain, his face more angular and gaunt, and yet still the handsomest man to ever walk through his door. 

Ezra wonders if Colin, like him, tortured himself during their stint apart. If he’d taken that huge handle of whiskey from his wine cabinet in the kitchen and sat in his living room alone, staring at the fireplace until he fell asleep. If he’d stared at his phone, composing messages he never sent. If he’d even wanted to call at all.

“I’ve come to apologise,” Colin says. “I missed you, you know, these last few weeks. You didn’t want to talk, so I wanted to give you space—”

“I thought _you_ wanted space,” Ezra says.

Colin almost laughs at that, an audible catch in his throat. “I think we’re going about this all wrong,” he says. He rubs at his jaw. “Do you really want to know why my wife left me?”

Ezra shakes his head and digs a hand through his bag of crackers, chewing robotically. He’s getting crumbs all over his lap and the carpet. At this point, he’s just eating so he has something to do with his hands, so he doesn’t embarrass himself before Colin finishes his big speech. 

“You were right. She thought I was having an affair with an intern, but rather than talk it out with her I let the doubt build up until she finally left me.”

Ezra blinks at Colin. “You didn’t tell her the truth?”

“It was useless at that point.” Now it’s Colin’s turn to shrug. “Whatever I said wouldn’t have mattered. She was convinced I was cheating on her. The same way you were convinced I was cheating on you — with an intern.”

Ezra’s mouth open and closes. He feels suddenly sick to his stomach. He feels — unmoored, so he grabs Colin by the lapels of his coat and shakes him once, twice, three times, each time making Colin’s head loll. “You bastard,” he hisses, hiccuping. “You stupid, _odious_ bastard.” Then he starts crying, like a little kid, cradling his face in his cupped palms and jerking away when Colin tries to wrap his arms around him. 

Colin rests his chin on top of Ezra’s head and kisses his hairline. He smells like he always does, like expensive cologne, and it makes Ezra cry even harder, even as Colin cards his fingers through his hair, even if Colin starts apologising all over again. “You made me think— you made me think — _fuck you_. _Fuck. You._ ” He lets Colin carry him to bed, and tuck him under the covers, all the while Ezra keeps smacking an open palm across his chest, without letting Colin’s tie go which he has wrapped around a fist. 

He feels delirious, dampening Colin’s coat with his tears, pulling Colin half on top of him. When his sobs begin to settle, Colin runs his knuckles down the side of Ezra’s cheek, and kisses the side of his neck, the back of his ear, his newly shaven face smooth except for stubborn patches of stubble. It still tickles when he runs his cheek up and down Ezra’s, eyes closed, a soft smile on his face, his lashes touching Ezra’s lashes, so close that they’re already breathing the same air.

“I like your new look,” Ezra tells him, in the silence that ensues, hands fanned around Colin’s face. It feels novel, still, touching him like this openly, especially after their time apart. “But I’d like it more if you grew your beard back.”

Colin grips his own jaw self-consciously, tilting his head this way and that. “Is that so?” Then he sobers up completely, and grabs Ezra by the hand, squeezing his fingers. “Barry told me you were moping.”

Ezra sits up abruptly but is stopped from shooting out of bed by Colin’s hand on his forearm. “I didn’t tell him anything, Colin! I swear!”

Colin laughs. “I know, Ezra. I know. It’s all right.” He squeezes Ezra’s hand again though he may as well have been squeezing Ezra’s chest the way Ezra suddenly feels like his lungs are struggling for air. “You were drunk at the time, he said. Threw up on his shoes and started to cry. You were always a chatty drunk.”

Ezra flushes, squeezing his eyes shut. He hates how Colin always makes him feel like his heart is on a precipice, tying itself in knots before careening off the edge of a cliff. “I promise to be less crazy,” he continues, when he’s in a much calmer state of mind. He sniffs, blowing his nose in a big wet wad when Colin hands him a dark blue handkerchief he conjures from the inner pocket of his coat.

“You aren’t crazy,” Colin promises him, until he laughs, very softly. “Well, maybe just a little bit.”

“Thanks,” Ezra says, shooting him a look.

“Don’t get me wrong — it’s endearing, until suddenly it’s not.” Colin smiles when Ezra pinches him in the side. “I missed you,” he says, then, apropos of nothing. He always takes Ezra off guard like that. How can one person make him feel this way, Ezra thinks, in so few words. “I really did.” 

After, Colin leans forward before touching two fingers to Ezra’s lips, tracing the edges, making Ezra smile, in spite of himself, until the back of his teeth aches from the strain of keeping a straight face. “I’d kiss you if you didn’t have the flu.”

“Maybe you could kiss me through clingfilm,” Ezra suggests.

Colin laughs and shakes his head, and finally, Ezra lets his tie go. Colin springs back to sit up properly against the headboard, curling his arm around Ezra’s shoulders when Ezra crawls into his lap to rest his head in Colin’s knee. He runs a thumbnail across a loose thread sticking out, then smooths a palm over it.

“Are you going back to the hospital?” Ezra asks, fighting off a yawn. Through the wall, he can hear strains of Louis Armstrong’s _What A Wonderful World,_ which, when he’d been a kid growing up in Jersey, had always made him think of Christmas in New York _._

It’s rather fitting now, Ezra thinks. Snow is falling softly outside, in glittering lines like rain. And he’s struggling very hard not to close his eyes and sleep.

“In a bit — I have surgery at two. Liver transplant.”

Ezra tightens his grip in Colin’s coat. “Don’t go yet. Don’t go until you absolutely have to.”

“I won’t,” Colin promises. He squeezes Ezra on the shoulder. “Did you take medication?”

“I’ll be fine,” Ezra assures him, even though he lets out a particularly violent sneeze a minute later and nearly hacks up a lung attempting to clear his throat.

“The sooner you’re better, the sooner I can kiss you,” Colin teases. 

When Ezra makes no move to budge from his perch in Colin’s lap, Colin swipes a hand through his hair, longer now, spilling between his fingers. He cups the back of Ezra’s head. His hand stays there, his fingers sinking clean through the mess of Ezra’s hair. “Merry Christmas, sweetheart,” he says.

“Shalom,” Ezra mumbles, making Colin laugh. He falls asleep with his head in Colin’s lap. 

The last thing he hears is Louis Armstrong's muffled crooning through the bedroom wall: _and I think to myself, what a wonderful world._

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	4. épilogue

“Come on!” Ezra yells, tugging Colin by the arm, dragging him out of the cab and onto the street. They’re already late to the _Son’s_ New Year’sgig, having been stuck in traffic for the better part of an hour before deciding to make it the rest of the way by foot, holiday rush hour be damned. 

They dodge pedestrians, low hanging branches, and more wayward bicyclists than hipsters in Williamsburg, but manage to finally arrive just before the second set, unwrapping their scarves at the door and locating a table near the bar. 

Ezra waves at Lilah from across the room just as another song is starting up — A Beach Boys cover he forgot the name of but hums along to. They order drinks, as well as the bar’s famousfish n’ chips, sharing a basket between them that they eventually decimate within ten minutes. 

Unfortunately, they can’t stay very long because they both still have shifts at the hospital, but they stick aroundin time for the encore, Lilah and Rob singing _Auld Lang Syne_ , slow and almost hymnal. 

It’s nearly midnight when they stumble onto the street, arm in arm against the cold, a slight drizzle of snow falling around them.  

The streets are near-empty at this hour though there are still university students searching vainly for open bars, laughing as they stagger drunkenly down the sidewalk.

They pass shuttered storefronts, restaurants whose chairs are up on the tables, a 24-hour convenience store chain playing cheery holiday music and glittering with Christmas lights.  

Ezra’s phone beeps in the pocket of his coat, a perfect echo of Colin’s own, except his is red when Colin’s isdeep black. His breath fogs up the air when he turns his face up to look at Colin, looking so handsome, despite the uneven beginnings of a silver beard.Despite the hair standing in little tufts at the back of his head.

“Hey,” Ezra says, “It’s already midnight.” He tilts his phone up at Colin, showing him the time, and Colin pretends to think for a moment before he grabs him by the forearms, hauling him forward so that Ezra stumbles chest-first against him with a soft yelp. 

Then Ezra leans in and kisses Colin on the cheek. He stays there for a minute, up close to Colin’s skin, until Colin puts an arm around his shoulders and kisses him on the mouth. Then Ezra’s smile widens, and it hurts his teeth. 

“Hi,” Colin says, nosing Ezra’s cheek, brushing clumps of snow from his eyelashes. “You’re sweet.” 

Ezra laughs and lets Colin tip him back so he could kiss him, just like people did in movies, backlit by the glow of streetlamp, down a long empty sidewalk as snow dusted the streets. 

Distantly, he can hear people laughing and cheering, celebrating the new year as fireworks streak the sky in gold and green flashes. 

“Happy New Year,” Ezra says, and glances down at the hands resting on his hips. He looks up to see the broad smile on Colin’s face, and feels himself start to flush under his gaze.  

“Yes,” Colin says, with such unabashed affection. “Indeed it is.”

 

Fin.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you can reach me on twitter @rtenenbaums for more of this nonsense. :-)


End file.
